


Natural Attraction

by consult_the_potato



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Researcher!Reader, Slow Burn, Will grow into its rating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consult_the_potato/pseuds/consult_the_potato
Summary: I’m excited to get started with you three tomorrow,you smile as you stand from the dining table, looking between Fidds and Ford before straining your neck to catch Stan’s gaze as well, not wanting to leave him out.Stan raises his brows as he looks at you from over his shoulder, a little surprised to be included but the tell-tale dimple appears on his cheek once again as he smiles warmly over to you, nodding. “We’ll see ya in the mornin’, toots. Go get some sleep.” He almost looks like he wants to say something else, lingering eyes locked on your own, and his smile softens as he turns to face the running water of the sink once more.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Reader
Comments: 35
Kudos: 79





	1. Beginnings

You put your car into park, eyeballing the wooden cabin your map led you to. When you’d received a postcard in the mail from Ford Pines himself, you figured it’d be something good, but a nice place in the middle of the woods in Oregon? Definitely an interesting place to continue his work. 

You nibble your bottom lip as you double-check the address on the postcard, nervous fingers tracing the slightly tattered edge of the cardstock. Ford’s loopy cursive had beckoned your presence to the small town, and now that you were here, you could sense why. The woods around the cabin are dense, the contents of those woods possibly new and ripe for discovery. He’d mentioned a few creatures he’d run into while living in this area that intrigued you; little men with long white beards, eyeballs with wings, a bear with many heads! A kind man, he remembered you from Backupsmore where you’d gotten your Zoology degree. He was a nice partner in the few classes you’d had with him, a sheepish smile hidden behind his hand while the two of you whispered between experiments. In all honesty, he was probably the first friend you’d made at that school.

And now here he comes, the same sheepish grin spread across his cheeks as he waves to you from his porch, shoving his hands into his pockets as he comes toward your car. 

“It’s so good to see you again,” He laughs as he claps a hand to your shoulder, six fingers squeezing you gently in lieu of a hug. He definitely looks different, you think, with his arms much thicker than they used to be under his cable-knit sleeves. 

“I’m glad you decided to come! I’ve got a hunch that there’s a new creature becoming as curious of us as I am of it, and I’d like your help with it, if you’re interested.” Ford talks as he takes your suitcase from the top rack of your car, careful to hold it close to his side as he motions you toward the house. “You’re welcome to use the attic as a workspace and bedroom, if you wish. Everything’s newly built, so likely not haunted.” He teases, and you smile, holding your purse to your chest as you walk comfortably alongside him, quietly laughing as you both reminisce that you swore your dorm building had at least 4 ghosts inside, but you somehow got away from it alive.

He’s grinning as he closes the wooden door behind the both of you, and you quietly regard the tall stranger moving around the kitchen, the faint sound of water running distantly. Ford smiles down at you and sets your suitcase on the floor nearby, moving through the living room and calling for the man to come meet you. 

The stranger dries his hands on the corner of an apron he’s wearing, using his shoulder to push the edge of his glasses back onto his face as he extends a slightly-damp hand. “Fiddleford McGucket, ma’am. Ford’s told me plenty about ya.” He’s grinning, freckled cheeks lifting his glasses slightly further up his face. You shake his hand and give him your name, matching his kind smile as you release his fingers. “You came on a good day! I reckon I’ve made too much supper for the three o’ us, so you’ll get a free homecooked meal!” Fiddleford talks over his shoulder as he starts back toward the kitchen, calling a sweet “Go make yerself comfy first!” as sounds of a knife against a chopping board resume. 

Ford explains the way to the attic and your shoes make the stairs creak a little, but all-in-all the home looks cozy. You settle in a little bit, placing your suitcase under your bed after fishing out a fresh shirt and pulling your hair up into a bun. The smell of whatever Fiddleford is cooking wafts in and your stomach rumbles, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since starting your drive from Portland. You smile at the thought of meeting the man. Definitely a sweetheart, but not from around here, you think, if that accent could tell you anything. Something he said, however, makes you even more curious. Ford mentioned a lab assistant in his card, but Fiddleford mentioned another guest to make food for. 

You jump when you hear the door downstairs **slam** shut, a gruff voice saying something to the other two, and though you can’t quite make out what they’re saying, you hear laughter. That must be them.

You give it a couple of moments before you come back down the creaky steps, peeking your head around the edge of the bannister to see Ford and Fiddleford sitting at a table with their backs to you, chuckling to one-another between bites of food. At one end of the table, facing you, is--Ford? Your eyebrows fly up in surprise as you get closer, but when you open your mouth to ask something, you notice the double has only five fingers. He stands, a dimple prominent at his cheek as you approach. Ford never mentioned a brother, let alone a damn _twin._

“Stan Pines, good t’meet’ya, toots!” He grins, shaking your hand quickly before plopping back down into his chair. You stammer a little before giving your name, his forwardness taking you slightly off guard. Ford explains that his brother has been staying with them, only beginning after he’d sent the initial postcard and you nod, smiling kindly to him and mumbling a soft, _pleased to meet you, Stan._ Fiddleford chuckles at your side, patting the chair beside him. “C’mon, get eatin’ before it gets cold, huh?”

You smile and sit down, digging in. McGucket says it’s got some local veggies in it, and damn is it good, especially after having not eaten for hours. You just nod and keep eating, careful to not make an ass of yourself.

Fiddleford asks a few questions about your time in college and you answer between forkfuls, teasing Ford with an anecdote or two about the girl you tried to get him set up with who he got too nervous to call again, or the time your mutual professor had asked him if he’d ever permed his hair. He flushes red and laughs, just like he did back then, and you grin with him. It’s great to catch up with him, and the way McGucket laughs with him makes him feel like an old friend, too. Stan twists his fork into his plate, a little quiet. You can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye, and when you turn to meet his gaze, you smile, tilting your head at him. _I bet you have plenty of embarrassing stories about Ford too,_ you say, almost more of an invitation than a statement.

When Stan smiles, his dimple reappears, his suave demeanor returning as he gives you a wink and nod. “Wouldn’t be a good brother if I didn’t indulge in terrible stories of my dorky twin, would I?” to which Ford snorts a laugh, trying to hide his wide grin with his hand as he rolls his eyes, “Oh God Stan, please don’t.” 

Stan breaks into a (possibly over-exaggerated?) story about Ford, the same sheepish and smiley boy you met years back, standing up to a bully they had when he was a kid. It’s cute to see Ford so bashful, chuckling and interjecting corrections as Stan grins and ignores his brother. Stan knows how to tell a story though, even with Ford trying to argue between words. He has Fiddleford laughing, and you’re smiling too. 

Something about his grin makes something in your chest heat up, and you feel the blush rising on your cheeks when he does a double-take, catching your stare focused on him. His smile breaks into a soft laugh and you join, looking down at your hands in your lap rather than the other men at the table. At the corner of your eye, you catch your research partners sharing a glance, but they don’t say anything. 

“Anyway, ah, it’s gettin’ kinda late.” Stan says, his voice a little quieter than before. You look up at him and now he’s staring, and it’s his turn to turn a little pink in the cheeks as he rubs the nape of his neck. He picks up used plates from the table, glancing to meet your gaze and mumble a thanks as you hand him your own. Stan moves swiftly toward the sink then, ignoring the questioning look Ford gives him and trying his best to ignore the smug smile creeping onto Fiddleford’s features as he starts to distractedly wash the dishes.

“W-Well, ah, yes. It is getting late,” Ford agrees, glancing to you before pointedly nudging Fiddleford, ridding the lanky man of the smirk curling at his lips. He’s a little bewildered at...well, whatever the hell just happened, but Ford gruffly clears his throat and nods to you. “You should get some rest. I’d like to take you through the forest tomorrow so you can see some of what F and I have been researching.” You nod at his words, rubbing the back of your neck like a scolded child as you feel the flush of your cheeks only deepen in color. 

_I’m excited to get started with you three tomorrow,_ you smile as you stand from the dining table, looking between Fidds and Ford before straining your neck to catch Stan’s gaze as well, not wanting to leave him out. Stan raises his brows as he looks at you from over his shoulder, a little surprised to be included but the tell-tale dimple appears on his cheek once again as he smiles warmly over to you, nodding. “We’ll see ya in the mornin’, toots. Go get some sleep.” He almost looks like he wants to say something else, lingering eyes locked on your own as his smile softens, and he turns to face the running water of the sink once more. 

Fiddleford ducks his head slightly to interrupt your gaze once Stan is turned away again, his grin kind but with a _hint_ of amusement at the edges. “You’re welcome to come ‘n bother us for whatever you need--I’m sure at least Ford and I will be up a few more hours.” 

You nod with your own polite smile, reaching to touch Fidds’ arm thankfully before pulling away, moving past the table toward the living room. _I appreciate the dinner, Fiddleford! I hope breakfast is just as good!_ You call the words over your shoulder and the men chuckle as you wave your way from the room and back toward the stairs. They really are a nice bunch, you think, albeit a little ragtag. But, such is the life for this field of work. You avoid a few more of the creaky stairs this time you go up, starting to map which of them squeak under your weight. 

As you finally reach your room and shut your new bedroom door, you take a long breath, resting your head back against the cool wood of the unpainted door, breathing in your new home for...well, as long as you can study the anomalies Ford had mentioned. Moving around to get ready for bed, you stop for a moment to lean against the triangular windowpane, catching the astounding view of a not light-addled sky and a streak of the Milky Way. Breathless, you watch the stars glitter from the opposite side of the pane of glass separating you, deciding then that _you could really get used to living like this._


	2. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d told you about this town’s weirdness-magnetism, but to _see_ one of these wacky creatures with your own eyes….It sounds preposterous, even though Stanford Pines is decidedly not a liar, changed from his college days or not.

As it turns out, ‘breakfast’ the next morning consists of a mug of lukewarm coffee and an urging of, “Come along--We’ll miss it if we’re too late!” as Ford excitedly pulls on his boots, haphazardly tying the laces and near-flying toward the backdoor to the woods. You, (thankfully) dressed but not exactly for an adventure, hurry out beside him after slipping your feet into your shoes without tying them, grabbing your nearly-forgotten mug as you move out the door a few paces behind Fiddleford. 

“I’m glad I have you _both_ to come out here with me today--you’d never believe what we’ve been tracking here!” Ford looks over to you, grinning excitedly as his hurried steps take him further down the worn path into the woods. He tightens the strap of his satchel as he murmurs to himself, reaching into the bag and finding the book he’d been looking for, opening it as he continues on. You look over to Fiddleford, a little exasperated at this Ford in front of you, a vastly different type of adventurer than the quiet and awkward man you’d been in classes with. Fiddleford just smiles back, an almost-playful knowingness in his gaze as he digs into one of his jacket pockets. His fishes out a granola bar for you (a prepared sweetheart, bless him), shooting you a wink as he nods forward to the excitable scientist blabbering on ahead of the both of you.

“--And, of course,” You tune-in again in the middle of a sentence, “The last time F and I tried to capture the creature, it burned a hole through the tarp we’d used. Not exactly smart on our part, since the tarp was made of plastic and provided enough smoke to mask where the little guy ran off to. But!” Ford spins around suddenly, startling you enough that if the mug you didn’t realize you still had, had any liquid in it, it would have spilled all over your half-tied shoes. “I think I’ve tracked the creature into a cave, just outside this grotto.” He flashes his journal to you while the three of you are stopped, the name of the elusive creature finally revealed to you; The Scampfire.

_It’s a cute name,_ you smile teasingly at your research partner and he snaps the book closed, smiling with a dusting of pink at his cheeks as he shakes his head at you. “Don’t be a smartass.” Ford puts the maroon-covered journal back into the satchel over his shoulder, turning back around as he starts to walk again, slower and with more measured steps this time around. “I just want to get a good sketch of him. His form shifts so frequently, it’s possible what little I’ve got on the creature may already be outdated.” Ford’s gaze shifts over the expansive forest, chewing at his lip as he murmurs to himself, and you frown a little confusedly. 

He’d told you about this town’s weirdness-magnetism, but to _see_ one of these wacky creatures with your own eyes….It sounds preposterous, even though Stanford Pines is decidedly not a liar, changed from his college days or not. 

Fidds looks over at the man ahead of you, nudging you lightly with a friendly sort of smile. “Sometimes he looks like that eager young 20-something all over again.” He teases, his voice low to try and avoid Ford hearing him. Ever so keen, Ford looks over his shoulder at the two of you, amusement in his tone, “I’m only 26, you ass.”  
Fidds laughs and the shorter man reaches to wave him quiet, apparently catching sight of your group’s target. 

“There!” Ford whispers, quickly pointing in the direction of a scuttling pair of logs poking from a cave, disappearing into the stone cavern as soon as it was spotted. He waves you forward excitedly, moving beside you as you start to carefully step closer through the overgrown grass off the path. You realize too late that the sneakers you’d pulled on this morning aren’t going to help you much, especially not against the patch of thorny bushes you’re trudging through. _Ford,_ you whisper to get his attention, reaching his way when he gets ahead of you. He takes a moment, glancing behind him toward the cave before reaching down to you, his fingers wrapped around your forearm as he lifts you to join where he stands, just out of the bramble. 

As you mumble a thanks, you bend down to pull a thorn out from your ankle when you see it. There, in the open mouth of the cavern is a lit fire, the flames flickering despite there being no draft around. You lean slightly further in, feeling your jaw drop at the sight of the fire scuttling into the corners of the cave, the flickering light reflecting against the stone walls. As it turns, you see that the thing has _eyes_ , for God’s sake--Ford wasn’t kidding! 

Marveling at the little creature, you are startled at the hand that lands at your shoulder, letting out a quick little yelp in surprise. “No!” Ford whispers, realizing what he’s done by scaring you and, by proxy, startling the scampfire out of its hiding place, the creature skittering around for a moment to find an exit and running into a patch of vines on its way, scuttling so close to you that you feel the heat on your face as the thing runs from its previous hiding spot and away into the woods. 

“Damn!” Ford huffs, pulling his hand away from your shoulder and reaching into his satchel as you touch at your hair, swearing you can smell the bitterness of singed hair as your eyes stay trained on where the thing disappeared. You hear crackling from within the cave, and Fiddleford makes a rushed sort of sound as he surges from behind you both, his hands a blur as he takes a water bottle from his (apparently deep) jacket pockets and quickly uncaps it, dousing the growing fire coming from the ivy that had been caught in the crossfire. As the little fire sizzles out, Fidds looks over to both you and Ford in disbelief, moving closer to you with concern in his gaze, “The li’l guy didn’t get you, right?” You shake your head, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were still holding as your heart continues to race.

_A new species?! These findings are magnificent!_ Your excitement bubbles forth as you look at the two men, with Fiddleford’s gaze almost amused as he watches you, and Ford’s almost irritated as he looks back down at the maroon journal he’s retreated back into. “It _is,_ if the damned thing would stay still for a moment longer any time I run into it. Ah, well.” Stanford closes the journal back up with a snap, his gaze falling on you once more as his smile returns, warm around the edges and with just as much vigor as you feel. “Now do you understand why I’ve asked you to come?” You laugh as you nod, the two men ahead of you looking proud of themselves as the look to you. 

Ford chuckles, motioning for you to follow as he turns to start back on the trail to home, “Come on, it’ll rain soon.” Thunder rumbles at his words, and it dawns on you why the little fire creature had been in the cave to begin with. You decide it’s likely better to leave and let the little guy return than to leave him out in the rain too. Moving back down to the path (and being grateful for Fidd’s helping hands as you tromp through the brambles from before), you follow a little ways behind the boys as you get closer to the cozy little cabin. You admittedly dawdle, taking in the sights and sounds of the little woods around Gravity Falls. You can only imagine the wonders that lie just under your nose within these trees, the things you’ll see during your time here, however long that may be...

Walking turns to running as the rain shower starts, and you realize you must have dawdled a little too far as the boys are already nowhere to be seen. You hotfoot it to the little cozy cabin as it downpours, throwing open the patio door and moving across the threshold before realizing there’s already a warm body standing there. You run your nose right into the barrel chest of Stan, who cries out in surprise as one of his hands catches your waist, the other holding to the door frame for balance. 

“Woah! Did you think you could run _through_ me to get out of the rain?” He asks, voice somewhere between gruff and playful as his warm hand stays on your now-damp-and-rapidly-cooling and waist. He seems to realize this, too, and as you look up at him to bashfully apologize, he releases you, shifting out of the way with a sheepish smile of his own. “Sorry you got caught in it, toots. Should’a warned you to be prepared, God knows those two run out with hardly any contingency plan.” You laugh at that, nodding your agreement as your fingers push your now-wet hair from where it sticks to your cheeks.  
Stan looks a little giddy when you laugh, joining you with a little chuckle before realizing he’s still hovering, just a little. He clears his throat, patting your shoulder as he slides out of the house and to the covered patio, murmuring something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. 

You have half a mind to go and chew out your new research partners, especially since you still don’t know the woods too well, but your gaze stays at the rain falling beyond the screen door and the man hurrying through it to wrench open the door of his red DeVille. Stan huffs a breath when he’s in the car, a little damp but not as worse for wear as you, and he spies you looking at him from the doorway as he’s shaking out his hair. His lip curls up an inch, giving you a little wave that you return with a small smile of your own before shutting the wooden door of the cabin.

As your fingers rest on the door, you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding, and immediately feel embarrassed that you’d been holding your breath at all. A shiver runs down your spine, the dampness of your clothes finally getting to you as you wrap your arms around yourself, taking the steps carefully up to ‘your’ room, and hoping for a warm shower on the way.

~~

Warm shower taken (and absolutely _deserved,_ after being left out in the cold rain), you move back up the stairs to get dressed in your warmest pyjama pants and a big t-shirt, watching as the rain outside continues to pour. You hum lightly, looking out the triangle-shaped window and smiling a little to yourself as you see headlights pull back close to the cabin, the bulky figure of Stan hurrying out of the car and onto the porch as a crack of lightning shines overhead.

You smile a little to yourself, remembering your quite literal run-in with him from earlier. Embarrassing as it may be, you’re grateful to have barrelled into him rather than either of your research partners. Truth be told, you’re almost certain Ford would have been a stammering mess, and lanky little Fiddleford might truly just have crumpled under your force, bless him. 

Hearing the front door close and the stairs creak, you figure Stan has made his way inside and is moving toward his room. You’re grateful for that, watching as the rain floods vision outside of the cabin from your little vantage point. Even so, the rumble from your stomach makes itself heard over the low rolling of the rain outside, reminding you that your breakfast had been more than a little lacking in substance.

You peek out from your bedroom, glancing around before making your way down the attic stairs. You grimace at the sensation of wet wood beneath your bare feet, certain that someone’s wet shoes had left the footprints in their stead, but you muster through it as you round through the living room and into the kitchen.

There’s laughter from somewhere behind or below you, muffled through the floorboards, and you figure that your research partners were hiding away in the lab they had mentioned earlier, making a mental note to check the space out (though, you should probably do it when you aren’t wearing your fluffiest, polka-dotted pj pants, you think). 

Though you haven’t been around long enough to go grocery shopping with this group, you figure there should be _something_ in the pantry to sate your hunger. As you bend down to look, scrounging through the opened boxes of pasta and half-rolled bags of chips, you are overjoyed to find a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup--the perfect rainy weather meal. You place the cans on the counter, taking a few minutes to search through the cupboards to find a pot to pour them in. Once you succeed, you put the thing on the oven, turning the dial for the corresponding burner as you do. 

Your next search is for a can opener, murmuring to yourself as you go through drawer after drawer to find it. Steps thump down the stairs as you shut the third drawer _(How many of these things are junk drawers?_ ), and you huff to yourself before Stan’s voice comes from behind you, stepping past the threshold of the kitchen. 

“What’cha lookin’ for, toots?” He asks, and you barely glance back over your shoulder as you give your answer. He seems to think for a moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before moving to your side, one hand resting at the small of your back as he reaches above you and pulls the thing from where it had been apparently resting atop the fridge. You wouldn’t have known it was there, but even as he pushes the thing into your hand, your mind is freezing up at the contact, the warmth of his hand at your back burning through your t-shirt.

“There ya go--would y’mind sharing what you’re making? I’m starved, and I think the other two are locked down in the lab for a while.” As he removes himself from you with a step back, you murmur a thanks, looking over to him as his request flies in one ear and out the other. He quirks a brow, and it suddenly dawns on you that he’d asked you a question, and you quickly nod in response as you move toward the soup cans and use the tool on them both, pouring the contents out into the pot.

You find a spoon (by some miracle), stirring the pot as you stand in front of the stove, the embarrassed warmth in your cheeks from the moment finally dissipating. “Thank you,” he murmurs from behind you, making his way into the fridge to grab a can of soda and then settling at the small kitchen table, the tab of the can opening with a **pop.**

The silence between you both lasts longer than you’d expected, though you can sense him looking your direction as the spoon clinks against the edges of the pot. He clears his throat, making a sound like he has something to say, and you look back at him expectantly, the words apparently fizzling out the moment your eyes meet his, and he instead takes a long drink from his soda.

You’re almost frustrated for a moment, but in the next you’re self conscious. The man seems so bubbly and talkative with the other members of the house, what’s so different about _you,_ of all people? Even so, you open up the cupboards above the oven, looking for some semblance of seasoning for the bland soup as you try to ignore the laughing voices below, and the oddly quiet one just a few feet away. 

“So, you...knew Ford in college?” He starts, the question coming as you finally find some various spices in different states of use, opening the cap for one as you nod in response. _We had some classes here and there,_ you hum, certain that the man already knows this, but indulging him anyway. 

Stan nods, a fingertip tapping against the aluminum of the can as he sits back in his seat. You pop the cap of another seasoning, and continue stirring the pot, glancing over your shoulder with a smile as he moves to say something else. 

“So...you an’ my brother weren’t close? Or..?” Your brow furrows, thinking this question was..essentially the same as the last one, and he stammers as he recognizes this, too. “N-No, like...ugh, shit.” Stan rubs at the back of his neck, looking away awkwardly. There is hissing behind you, and you swear as your soup nearly boils over, quickly lifting the pot from the burner as you quickly turn off the stove, apparently having stayed distracted for too long. 

You huff quietly, putting the pot back down onto the now-off burner as you turn to look back at Stan, who looks a little surprised, or even embarrassed at having distracted you. 

Unamused, but huffing a little exasperated breath, you look at him with a smile. _Soup’s ready._

It’s silent again as you start searching for bowls, and Stan huffs a little laugh as he points at one cabinet in particular, and you find them much more easily that way. You pour out two bowls, setting one in front of him and taking a moment as you pick up your own bowlful, wondering if you should leave the man with his awkward questions and take your bowl upstairs, or...well, you don’t want to be rude to your new housemate, right? So you take your place at the chair across from him, your spoon clinking against the bowl as you tuck in. 

Stan pretends that the awkward moment from earlier didn’t happen, but after the third glance up at you in between bites, you take the bait, putting down the spoon as you look at him. _What are you trying to ask?_

“I...Guess what I’m trying to ask, is...did you and my brother ever..? Were you two, ah...an item?” He finally spits out, the cringe in his face evident as he looks at you expectantly. An _item?_ You snort at the question, it being one you definitely weren’t expecting as you shake your head in answer. 

_Your brother is cute, but insufferable in the best of ways,_ You laugh, and Stan’s face softens as his own lips curl up, _We weren’t ever any kind of...anything, except research partners._

“Okay. Ah...Well, alright.” Stan laughs, leaning back in his chair again and seeming to exhale a breath of relief. His demeanor is so much more relaxed now, more like the him you’re around when you’re with the others. Your brows furrow, smiling at him in confusion, but amusement. He’s not the you-break-my-brother’s-heart-you’re-in-trouble kind of guy...is he? And even so, Ford never seemed the dating type--well, to you, anyway. 

_Why?_ You ask, quietly slurping another spoonful of soup as you look at Stan (say that 5 times fast). He grows a little sheepish, shrugging with a little smile. “It’s not that important, really.” Your brow furrows at him, nonverbally doubling down on the question as you rest your elbow on the table, your chin resting against your knuckles as you wait for his answer. 

“...Well, I can’t go breaking the bro-code with my actual _brother_ , now can I?” He answers matter-of-factly, pointing the spoon in your direction before taking dipping it into the soup, a smirk playing at his lips. You slowly start to understand his meaning, your brows rising in surprise, and your cheeks starting to grow warm as his smirk spreads across his cheeks, his dimple prominent as he chuckles. “Sorry, uhm..too forward?” He asks, amused and peachy as Pitt while he slurps another spoonful of his meal.

You prickle just a little, not enjoying being embarrassed, or being poked fun of. Even if that’s not his intention, your cheeks still burn, frowning as you sit back in your seat. _Maybe so._ You answer his rhetorical question, and his joking demeanor immediately falters, looking up at you in surprise. “O-Oh, toots, I didn’t mean to rub you wrong--”

_What kind of girl do you think I am, Stanley?_ You ask, your prickle coming out a little as you tense, frowning his direction, _You think I’m here to date o-or fool around with you or the other two here? I’m here to work and further my experience in the lab, not...elsewhere._

Stan blanches, looking embarrassed as he waves a hand to stop you, shaking his head, “N-No, not even at all I...I-I’m sorry.” He stammers, exhaling a held breath as he deflates. That makes you feel better, if only a little bit, to see that cocky bravado melt away. “I-I didn’t want to imply that you were some...I-I dunno, I respect you and what you do. My brother, he...talks highly of you, you’re a good lady.” He’s rambling, and you both seem to realize this at the same time. 

You listen, relaxing a little but ready to defend yourself, nodding for him to explain his case. He seems grateful for this, exhaling a breath as he rubs at the back of his neck. “I..I just wanted to ask you out, no strings, not if you didn’t want them. You’re pretty, and...well, there’s only so many girls in Gravity Falls--” he notices you puff up a little at that, quickly continuing, and you swear that he’s got a bit of sweat at his temples as he speaks, “--but none of them are as interesting as you are. You’re a sweet gal, and...I’d like to know you better.” Stan finishes, and it’s your turn to deflate a little. Even if his wording wasn’t the _best,_ he seems like a sweet guy. And..well, you’d be lying if you didn’t think he was cute. 

But a date? No strings attached? Well...that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it? You _do_ like him...as long as he understands that the research comes first, maybe a bit of fun on the side wouldn’t be horrible. 

_I...don’t think that’s unreasonable,_ You say slowly, his amber eyes widening as he looks at you. “You...yeah?” 

_Yeah,_ you nod with a smile, shrugging a little, _I think you’re interesting, and I’d...like to know you better, I think, too. Just...you know, for fun. No strings, like you said._

_“Phew,_ okay,” Stan laughs quietly, his hand coming from the back of his neck and resting at the table, relaxing back into his chair for the final time, “I thought I was going to hav’ta explain to Ford why his newest research partner just...up and left, because I’m an asshole.” He chuckles, and you can’t help but laugh with him. 

His eyes linger on you as you smile, and despite yourself, you feel the familiar warmth of your cheeks again, though not from embarrassment this time. Well, you stand, taking your bowl and moving to put it into the sink, _I think we should both, uh...cool down. Get some rest._

Stan nods, looking up at you as you move across the kitchen, “H-Hey, uh...I was planning to watch a movie tonight. Can we...start over, be less awkward...have some fun?” 

You feel your smile as you look over your shoulder at him, shrugging a little, almost playful, _I think we can manage that, at least. I’m already in my comfiest digs._ You motion to your pjs, as if he wasn’t already looking at you in them, and he chuckles at the sight and your words. 

“Well, give me a second to change to match, and we can get started.” He grins, standing and moving close to you to put his bowl in the sink as well. His arm is close to your waist, brushing lightly against the fabric of your shirt as he pulls back. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, as he moves from the sink, calling a “Be right back!” as he rounds the corner into the living room, then up the stairs.

Nibbling your bottom lip, you watch him take the steps by two up the stairs, clearing your throat and rubbing at the back of your neck now that you’re alone. That was...less than charming, on both sides of the conversation, but...well, it’s not like you’re here for pleasure anyway, right? What does it matter that he thinks you’re not-so-charming? You try to ignore the second-hand embarrassment from remembering the outburst, but...at least, now he knows what you’re about. 

You make your way to the couch and settle into the well-worn cushion, curling against the arm of the seat as you hear the familiar thunking of footsteps down the stairway again, Stan reappearing in a white tank top and some heart-patterned boxer shorts. Not exactly _your_ definition of comfy and casual, but hey, it’s not horrible. Plus, it’s...not necessarily a bad view. 

“So! Movie time, ah...d’ya like scary, funny, or..?” Stan looks back at you, the glint of his gold chain sparkling in the light against his chest hair. 

You shrug, feeling the smile playing at your lips as it starts to spread across your cheeks, _I’m good with anything._

Stan scoffs, exasperation in his voice even though the hint of his dimple betrays him, “You’re leavin’ it up to me? Always somethin’ I gotta do around here, seriously…” You cover the snort of a laugh behind your hand, and he perks more at the sound, glancing back at you with a glint of mischief in his eye. He fiddles around with a few tapes, finally picking one and popping it into the VCR before moving toward the couch. He seems to consider the cushion beside you for a moment, but he clears his throat as he moves to the plush recliner beside you, instead. 

He went with the scary movie, it seems, the dark forest settling of the beginning reminding you a little too much of your current surroundings, just outside the cabin’s doors. Though, you’re absolutely certain it’s just a coincidence, and the woods really don’t look _that_ similar….you guess.

At any rate, Stan seems pleasantly entertained by the movie, too. He gasps in all the places to gasp, and mutters commentary to himself (“Don’t open the closet, dumbass-- _WHAT_ did I just say?”) that causes you to snort a laugh, even in the heat of the suspense. 

A particularly good scare makes you jump, curling your legs up beneath you as you continue watching from behind your fingers. Stan catches sight of this, muffling a snicker behind his hand before shifting in his seat, leaning over toward you, “Hey, uh...you alright? It’s a good movie, but some of these scares can really, uh...get’ya.”

_O-Oh, yeah,_ you stammer, rubbing lightly at your arm as you readjust in your seat. Really, it wouldn’t be so bad, you think, if the movie wasn’t all about the creatures in the woods… _It’s scarier when you have so many unknown things in the woods in real life._

“Huh, I guess it would be.” He chuckles lightly, shrugging as he rubs the back of his neck, “I guess I haven’t watched this movie since I got up here, so...I see what you mean. But, ah, don’t worry, toots. I’ll keep you safe.” Stan teases lightly, flashing you a wink as his smile only grows. You roll your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling as you shake your head, _I’m sure you will._

Still, even if the sentiment is a little....flirty, something in his gaze does make you feel better. He reaches over, patting your shoulder gently with a warm smile before leaning back into his cushy chair once more, settling in with a content hum. His eyes find their way back to the screen, and yours travel from it, taking in the sight of him as he watches the movie. He looks comfortable, relaxed in the well-worn seat, and you almost think he could fall asleep within the cushions (especially since the thing looks like he has done exactly that, at least a few times).  
Your gaze slides back to the screen as the heroine of the story finds her way back into the abandoned treehouse in the woods, axe in hand. Stan sits up in excitement, “This is the best part!” He reaches toward you, patting your arm lightly, being sure you are paying attention. 

There she goes, the heroine spouting some witty line which you are sure the writer’s room hollered about for days when they thought it up, before plunging the axe into the chest of the silhouetted bad guy. Blood and guts spurt toward the screen, and the figure staggers one step, two, before falling forward on the weapon, the moonlight revealing that the identity of the killer was...the heroine’s sister, all along! 

You gasp at the twist, turning to look at Stan, who is smiling smugly as he nods, apparently pleased with your reaction as he motions toward the screen fading to black, credits starting to roll. “See! I told you it was a good one--The sequel really ain’t too good, though.” He wrinkles his nose as he mentions the movie, and you chuckle quietly as he hoists himself from the chair with a groan, moving to turn off the movie.

Stan puts his hands on his lower back and stretches, giving his back a rub as he smiles your direction. “I wouldn’t mind making it a double feature, but you look kinda tired, toots.” 

You _feel_ tired; something about dealing with a new creature, being caught out in the rain, and having an awkward discussion all in one day makes for an exhausted you. You nod as you smile, though, reaching to your cheeks and covering the bags you’re sure are starting to form under your eyes, _Is that a nice way to tell me I look like shit?_

His brows nearly fly off his forehead as he barks a laugh, shaking his head, “Not as much as I do, I promise ya.” You snort, _That’s convincing,_ and he waves you off. “Yeah, yeah. You look alright, though--just a li’l like you might crash and burn any minute. If you think I’m carryin’ you up there if you fall asleep on the couch, you’ve got another thing coming.” Despite his words, he’s smiling to himself, turning to busy himself with taking the tape from the VCR and sliding it back into its case. 

_Hey! What happened to ‘be kind, rewind’?_ You point out, moving to stand from the couch and feeling the tired weight of the day start to settle in your frame. “Tch, Ford and Fidds don’t have the courtesy, why should I?” You snort quietly, and he glances over at you with a quirked brow, looking as though he might say something, but he bites his cheek, opting otherwise. 

Yawning, you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, the tiredness starting to push a little more into the forefront of your mind. It’s been a long day, really, and you hadn’t quite noticed it with all the running around. _I guess I’ll see you in the morning,_ you say through another yawn, giving Stan a halfhearted wave as you turn toward the stairs. “You bet—hey, if those knuckleheads try and wake you up early as ass again, you tell them to do it themselves. They’re big boys.” Stan reminds, pointing toward you as if to drive his point across. You nod, covering your smile at the sentiment and starting the few steps up the stairs, hearing the murmur of “G’night,” following you up with the creak of every wooden step.


	3. Journals

The next morning is markedly more quiet, though you still wake up to the sounds of yelling voices from downstairs. You are alarmed at first, shooting upward at the sound before quelling your now-racing heart with the reminder of ‘ _It’s just the boys fooling around._ ’ Since your heart is already racing, and you’re already sitting up…well, might as well get up, you suppose. Humming softly to yourself, you swing your feet over the edge of the bed and stand on the wood floor, moving around your still-somewhat-strange room. Freshly moving in to somewhere with roommates who are already happy and comfy in the home is a learning curve, but you’re slowly getting the hang of it, you think. 

Dressed and moving downstairs, you can make out what the yelling is about—and, who is yelling. 

“Stanley!” Fiddleford screeches from somewhere within the kitchen, “You’d better get this damn thing out of this house!” 

“I’m tryin’, I’m tryin’!” You hear the gruff voice in the kitchen too, apparently with some sort of uninvited guest (which the two are not handling well). There’s a clatter of cookware, and you poke your head around the corner in order to see just _what_ is going on. 

As you round the corner, the back of the same gruff-voiced man collides into your front, nearly tipping you off-kilter as you catch Stan by the arms. He gasps in surprise as he glances back at you, and murmurs a quick, “Thanks, toots--” as he moves to snatch up a dishtowel from where it hangs at the handle on the oven, quickly righting himself and unfolding the towel as he moves further into the kitchen. It’s then that you see Fidds, crouched beneath the dining table, wincing and watching as Stanley moves across the room.

You follow Stan’s movements and gasp at the realization, covering your mouth as you see yet another new creature--an eyeball with _bat wings_? The poor thing seems to’ve found its way into the cabin, much to the boys’ dismay. _What--what is that?!_ you ask.

“An eyebat!” Fiddleford answers, and Stan grunts as he runs into a counter in his attempt to capture the flying creature, the brunet rubbing his gut as he leans heavily against the countertop, wheezing a little.

The thing chirps as it makes a dive for Stan, who waves it away with the dishtowel and reaches to grab it again, but misses the thing. You move in his stead, reaching for a wing and moving quickly to cover your head as the thing takes a dive for you, too, an involuntary cry coming from your throat as you wince away. You’re grateful that the thing doesn’t have teeth (or, at least, you’re _hopeful_ that it doesn’t), as you’re sure the list of diseases it could give is lengthy and...well, unknown, just like the beast itself. 

Stan looks at you in worry when you cry out, and he moves with a scowl on his face as he flails the dishrag at the bat, distracting it away from you. You duck away while the creature is distracted, and Ford, by some miracle, finally emerges from the doorway down to the lab, a butterfly net in hand. 

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him!” The newly-appeared twin yells out, swinging the net up against the ceiling toward the critter and missing easily, the pole of the net smacking Stan in the back of the head as he jumps for the bat once more. 

“Hey! Watch it!” Stan groans, hand and dishrag together coming to cup at the base of his own skull. “Sorry-- _move!_ ” Ford says without looking at his brother, barging toward you now as the bat makes another dive. You tense up with a quick, eep!, and you buckle as one of your ankles is pulled out from under you. You land hard on your ass, and quickly cover your face with your arms, being tugged out of the impending footfalls of Ford’s running toward the eyebat. You move an arm aside to peek out at the hand on your foot. Though your ass hurts fiercely, you’re grateful for the pull, especially as Ford stumbles over his own feet and collapses to the hardwood floor with a grunt. 

_Oh, God,_ you wince on his behalf, shooing Fidds’ hand from your ankle and quickly hoisting yourself back on your feet. You watch as Stan ducks from the beastie once more, and Ford, useless and groaning on the floor as he rubs at his knee. Scrambling a little yourself, you take the net from where it lies next to Ford, and lift it up just as the eyebat does another swooping dive toward Stan. The man covers his head to deflect the attack, but he doesn’t need to--you swoop up with the net as the eyebat swoops down to Stan, and, by some miracle, catch the little bastard within the confines of the net!

_Got you, little fucker!_ You laugh triumphantly, quickly reaching out to trap the little creature by closing the net into a makeshift-bag, holding the netting near to the top of the net’s rim. It takes a moment before you realize the words that had left your mouth, your brows flying up in surprise as you look between the three men--who had, at this point, likely not heard your colorful language. Well, it’s _fine,_ not like they’re children or anything, but...well, the wide eyes of the trio are all on you; Fidds’ gaze is relieved, darting from you to the eyebat, Ford’s is almost upset in that you caught the poor creature instead of him doing it himself, and Stan? Stan is absolutely _giddy,_ starry-eyes and a wide smile, dimple prominent with the grin across his cheeks.

“We- _helllllo!_ Look at you! No wonder Sixer wanted you up here.” Stanley chuckles, crossing his arms across his barrel chest before one of his heartier laughs makes him wince, his hand coming back to rub at the back of his head once more. You snort quietly at him and look over to Fiddleford hoisting Ford back up to his feet, almost a little surprised at the strength beneath the skinnier man’s lanky frame. 

_Well, that could have gone better,_ you point out, three of the four of you now injured in some way or another. Ford huffs an exasperated laugh, nodding as he claps Fidds’ shoulder and moves in your direction, “That’s truly been the main point of this whole thesis--Gravity Falls Anomalies: or, how everything could go so wrong, so fast.” He grins at you as you smile back up at him, offering the clasped net in his direction. Ford seems to remember that the eyebat is _still in your hand_ , and his expression changes to a little, “Oh!” 

In a moment he moves away from you, pulling open one of the cabinets and reaching up to a shelf (high enough that you’d need to be on tiptoe to reach), pulling down a large screw-lid jar from the cupboard, and passing the lid to Fidds, who looks momentarily confused before realizing, pulling his knife from his pocket, and moving to make small air holes into the aluminum topper.

“This is a perfect--albeit, perhaps a little spooked--specimen to study, so...well, thank you.” He grins excitedly, holding his hand out to Fidds who pushes the now-poked lid into the polydactyl man’s palm, and with some shuffling and the other men moving closer to you, just in case the eyebat begins its flight again, the little guy now resides in a quaint little jar which Ford carefully and firmly, shuts tight before placing it on the counter.

“You aren’t gonna keep the li’l thing in that teeny jar for too long, are’ya?” Fiddleford asks, quirking a brow in your research partner’s direction, and Ford shakes his head. “Absolutely not! However...I have the prototype in the lab--a tracker. I was hopeful that I could attach it to our friend here, and release him back home. And, maybe, find where that home may _be_.”

You absentmindedly rub at your backside, sure there may be some rather interesting bruising there later, and move to look at Stan who still remains preoccupied with his head as the other two chatter amongst themselves about the technology that comes with this tracking idea.

_Is your head alright?_ You ask, and move to look at the back of his head, and the man shifts his bulky frame to get in your way, arms crossed, a quick “Yeah, ‘t’s fine,” murmured from his lips. You frown, the mood change too sudden for the man you’ve only known a few days, but feel like you can read fairly well, at this point. _Stanley,_ you say sternly, and when he catches that look in your eye, his hardened jaw softens slightly, sighing as he shows you the dishtowel with a few red specks on it, his free hand coming back up to rest at his head again. 

“Must’a happened when Sixer got me with that damn net. It doesn’t _hurt_ too bad, but...well, I have a headache, I guess.” Stan admits, and you reach to wrap your hand around his arm and give him a tug, away from the kitchen counter and into one of the waiting dining room chairs. _Sit,_ you order, and he does, by some miracle, though not without giving you a dirty glare. You shrug off the coolness of the stare, moving past the two scientists standing and murmuring to each other as the eyebat-in-a-jar attempts to bounce off the glass wall to scoot the thing closer to the edge of the kitchen counter. You reach between the two, lifting and placing the jar closest to the wall, and you smile at the surprised looks from both brunets as you turn and move into the nearest bathroom in search of a first-aid kit.

There is murmuring between the three voices as you round the corner back into the kitchen with the kit in hand, and the sound immediately stops as your foot crosses the threshold. You quirk a brow at the trio; Fidds’ hands on the top and bottom of the eyebat jar, innocently smiling your way with a gleam in his eye that tells you otherwise, Ford’s eyes darting around the room inconspicuously, and Stanley’s gaze glued to his lap, the hint of a flush tinting his cheeks. 

_Okay, I’ll pretend to be stupid enough to ignore that,_ You mumble, causing Fidds to snort and Ford to elbow his friend in reprimand as you take the kit toward Stan. You place the plastic thing on the dining table and start to gather a few things from inside of it to use--the antiseptic, a nice gauze bandage, some other things… Feeling eyes on you, you peek up to find Stan watching your every move curiously, his eyes trailing up to your own when your hands stop their movement. He offers a smile, only a sheepish little thing, and you’re embarrassed when your own cheeks grow warm at the sight, quickly offering one of your own before you look back down at your supplies, finishing gathering your assortment. 

Ford clears his throat, rubbing his palms together and moving to snatch his net from where it had been left in the room, “Well, F and I have a few ideas on this tracker, so I suppose we should get cracking--and I should take this, uhm...in case.”

“You take it easy today, Stanley. Y’got a good hit to the noggin, and we can’t afford t’handle a hefty hospital bill this week.” Fiddleford reaches to pat Stan’s shoulder and nearly loses handle on the eyebat-in-a-jar as he does so, quickly fumbling to regain the control, and give the little beastie one humdinger of a stinkeye (and, you think, the eyebat is trying to do the same to Fidds). 

“Yeah, yeah...I’m sure she’ll patch me up better than the pretty nurses would, anyway. She’s got more wits about her.” Glancing at you with a playful smile, you can’t help but laugh under your breath, shaking your head, _You bet your ass I do._

This makes him laugh, though again suck a breath through his teeth at jostling his headache too much. You tut softly, putting a hand on his shoulder as you motion for him to turn around, to let you see the back of his head.

Unseen by you, Ford and Fidds share a look, a smile, and an unsaid word between quirked brows by both parties. “Alright, we’ll see you both in a while.” Ford says much too quickly, turning and taking Fidds by the elbow to do the same with a, “Keep an eye on ‘im!” toward you, as they both move toward the doorway to the lab, out of sight and out of mind.

You frown over your shoulder at the two, exhaling an almost-annoyed breath as your hand returns to Stan’s shoulder. _Those two are something else,_ you remark, the hint of exasperation in your voice. You’ve only been here a few nights, and these men have gotten you nearly-attacked and at least somewhat harmed in almost all of those nights. Still, though...it isn’t the _worst_ thing you’d experienced thus far. 

_Better this than stuck bored, back home._ Giving your own response to your own statement makes Stan huff a laugh, glancing out of the corner of his eye to acknowledge you as you start to doctor the cut at the base of his head. “Where _is_ home, for you?” He questions lightly, and you tell him your answer with a shrug, pushing antiseptic cream from the tube and onto your finger to dab at the wound. 

“I getcha. I’m not really...well, I don’t have a good answer to that question myself, I suppose.” Stan admits, and though it’s such an insignificant, little change, you see his shoulders droop as he says it. “Don’t have much of a home.”

Something in your chest pinches at the way he says the words, and you feel your mouth screw up a little as you consider your next words. Carefully placing the gauze to the little wound, and taping it down while trying to not pull too much of his long hair in with the adhesive, one of your hands rests comfortingly at his shoulder. 

_Now that’s not true, is it? You and I...well, we have a home here, now. Both of us._ You offer a smile alongside the words, giving him a little shake as you try to catch his attention from whatever the thought in his mind may be. He seems to consider for a moment while you go to wash your hands, and when you lean back against the sink as you dry your hands, he finally smiles again. 

“Hey, I s’pose you’re right, toots--we’ve got...well, the cabin. Our rooms. Our little, weird house dynamic could be a family. F, Ford, me, you….Whatever the hell else those knuckleheads might be keepin’ down there,” The addition makes you laugh, and the dimpled grin he gives in return makes the pinch in your chest ease up again. Still, his words hold meaning. Even with as short of time you’ve known him, he considers you close. Well, of course he would, you are both housemates with a mutual respect and care for the home’s owner, and it would truly do no good on anyone’s part to actively _dislike_ whom you’re living with…

And that’s it, right? ...Right.

_Does that make the eyebat our cousin, or our nephew?_ You ask, and it’s his turn to snort a laugh as he shakes his head, “I guess Ford and Fidds could be his parents, so I’d say nephew.” He grins as he ponders the question, shaking his head and waving it away before reaching back to touch the newly-bandaged spot at his head. 

_Ah-ah,_ you scold, reaching to catch his wrist before he can make it the whole way there. _It’s barely holding up, thanks to all that hair, so one wrong nudge and I’ll need to redo the whole thing. O-Oh, but--_ , you remember, reaching for the two little pills you’d laid out on the table, and dropping them into his palm, closing his hand around them before releasing his wrist back to his own control. _That will help the headache._

His gaze is locked on your face for a long moment, brows raised, mouth slightly agape, before he nods and moves his hand from where you’d left it. You realize all at once that you probably overstepped some boundary, quickly taking a step away and clearing your throat as you move to clean up the plethora of packets and other trash from the dining tabletop. Stan pops the pills into his mouth before standing, cupping his hand beneath the faucet and slurping a quick sip of tap water that dribbles down his chin and onto his shirt, but is apparently sufficient in downing the ibuprofen. 

Your eyes follow the wet splotches on his t-shirt before you meet his eye again, offering an apologetic sort of smile as you move to trash the little plastic bits that remained from your work. He smiles back, moving to rub at the back of his head before thinking twice, giving you an extra glance as his hand drops back down to his side. “So, ah… I was plannin’ to go out into town, but if Fidds says I need t’take it easy, I guess I should stick closer to home. I...was thinking, we could sit and watch something again, if you..wanted to join me.” 

You consider it for a moment, nibbling at your bottom lip as you shrug. _Sounds fine to me,_ you nod, deciding that you’ve probably had enough close interaction with the eyebat for one day...at least, for now. _I’ll probably go and write up an account of the little guy later, get his mugshot and all, but...for now,_ you motion him ahead and he smiles, making his way through the doorway. 

You follow Stan to the living room, and he snatches up the remote before making his way to sit on the couch, making you hesitate for a moment. Though it’s not like you had a set spot, especially not yet, since you’ve only been around a short while, but...well, what would stop you from sitting next to him? It’s a free country. Free….couch-ry… Anyway.

Settling into the cushion beside him, you lean against the arm of the couch, making sure it’s a reasonable, but not overtly-avoidant length of space away from him. Comfy. Cozy. Casual.  
“You take ‘mugshots’ of the animals?” He asks, leaning back into the cushy seat and turning to face you, one of his arms draped comfortably against the back of the couch. 

_Mm? Oh, yes, actually,_ you look around where you sit and shift in the couch, bending over the arm of the chair and reaching under the thing in order to finally find your prize--your own research journal. _Take a look!_ You push the slightly-worn cover in his direction, noticing his pinkened cheeks as you do so. It dawns on you that you may have, uhm...bared your assets, in your search, but the thought is pushed aside as Stan opens the bound book in his hands. 

“No wonder my brother and you get along so well--he’s got one’a these just like this.” He chuckles a little, flipping through a couple pages as he glances your direction. _Of course he does,_ you grin, _who do you think gave him the idea?_

“No kiddin’?” Stan grins, and you nod proudly, motioning to your journal. _This is iteration four, but only because I write quite a bit._ He hums in thought as he thumbs through the pages, taking care as he turns them to not jostle the carefully-placed polaroids for each entry. 

Stan whistles low, nodding as he reads over some of your curly writing, “You’re pretty detailed, with all this...Why pictures, though? Can’t draw?”

_Well, my hands shake a little, in the best of times. You can see,_ you offer, reaching across him to turn a few pages back, to one of your first journal entries. He holds his breath a fraction as you invade his space, though you don’t notice, your fingers pulling one of the pictures from its little holder, revealing the previously-there attempt of a drawing showing the same creature. It’s by no means _bad,_ especially for you, but the lines are not as polished and pristine as Ford’s tend to be. 

“Aw,” he chuckles, and you feign a dirty look in his direction as he patronizes your doodle, “It really ain’t _that_ bad.” Stan smiles, and you feel the weight of his arm rest across your shoulders, his hand squeezing your shoulder as he teases, “At least your handwriting’s good. Ford had to work on his for years before it was even _legible._ ” You laugh at that, smiling as you lean over again to put the picture back in its place. You try to ignore the warmth of his chest against your arm as you push the polaroid into its pocket, sitting back into your spot as you continue to look down at the pages. 

_This is everything, you know. All of my work, for the last...however long, all in this and some other little books upstairs._ You look down fondly at the book, feeling Stan’s eyes on you as you do, and you finally look up at him. His breath tickles at the little flyaway hairs near your temple and forehead, and he looks down at you with surprise in his gaze, the same surprise mirrored in your own eyes. You feel the immediate rush of heat to your cheeks as you stay frozen, locked in by his arm around your shoulder and the look in his eye. You take a slow breath in to...move, or speak, or just to do _something_ to regain control of your composure--

“Stanley, d’ya think you could--Oh!” Fiddleford’s voice comes from the doorway to the lab, and he quickly turns away as he sees you and Stan together on the couch. Stan clears his throat as he shifts, and you shrink back against your designated section of couch, your shoulders losing the heat and weight from Stan’s arm as you do. 

“What’d you need, Fiddleford?” Stan’s voice has an added gruffness to it, and you’re sure the look on his face matches. You, on the other hand, are _entirely_ interested in your shoes instead of the conversation occurring in front of you, embarrassed heat flushing your entire face. It’s not like you were _doing_ anything, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, just two grown adults talking and hanging out and doing _absolutely nothing,_ thank you very much.

“Well, I was going to see if you’d, ah...help out with carryin’ a new toy outside. The thing is a little heftier than we’d meant it to be.” Fidds smiles over at the two of you, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. 

Stan scoffs, “What, with you two buildin’ it? No wonder--you dorks would probably overcomplicate a _pencil_ if you built it yourself.” As he pushes himself up from the couch, Fidds turns to head back into the lab, snickering a, “Ford, didja hear that? Your brother said, we’d--” before his voice fades down the stairs. Stanley gives you a glance when he stands, clearing his throat and pushing your journal toward you to get your attention. 

When you finally look up to meet his gaze, you’re grateful Fiddleford has gone, because the fond smile Stanley gives you makes the heat rush to your face all over again, even though you’d thought you were done. 

“Thanks for lettin’ me look in your book--you’ll have to show me the others sometime. I’d love to see earlier attempts of those little drawings.” He winks, and you take the journal from his hands with a sheepish laugh as he smiles at you. You stay like that a moment, sitting...seemingly waiting, though you aren’t sure what for. 

_T-Thank you for, uhm...indulging me_ , you stammer, the smile still playing on your warm cheeks. He gives a stiff sort of nod, reaching up to the back of his neck and rubbing there before remembering, his hand leaving the bandage you’d patched him up with. “I‘ll, uh...be sure to keep takin’ it easy, after this. Promise.” 

You nod, trying to give him a stern look despite your smile, wagging your finger at him and he chuckles as he nods, “I know, I know, toots,” as he turns to make his way down the lab stairs. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his cheeks just a little pink as he turns away. You almost go to mention it but decide against it, pursing your lips to hide your smile as he walks away.

There’s murmuring and laughter from the downstairs lab and you hear a gruff “Hey!”, though you can’t make out the rest of the conversation. 

You aren’t sure, really, what all of that was about, but...There’s something that is slowly unfurling from your chest now that he’s away, a warmth there that eases as you stand from the couch and move away. You hear a laugh from downstairs, unmistakably his, and there’s that warmth all over again. You swallow it down as you hold your journal closer to your chest, glancing down toward the doorway in the familiar lab, but you quickly decide against going down yourself. Instead, you turn on your heel, quickly taking the stairs by-two back up to your room, leaving the thoughts and feelings of uncertainty behind. 

You hope.


	4. Snapshots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your face continues to burn, feeling almost as though you’d been caught in a lie. Though, you haven’t been. Nope. No fraternizing here, even if you’ve thought about...well, the mind wanders, so what?
> 
> Ford seems to notice this tension, and you hear the dull rolling of an office chair toward you before six fingers land to squeeze at your shoulder, his voice fond. “I don’t mean to _imply_ anything. I’m just...suggesting, you know, that…it’s okay. To..do. That.”

It’s sunset before you decide to leave your room again, remembering that there’s some work to be done for you to categorize the newest critter into your journals. You take the newest edition, with a clean cover and a spine that’s barely been cracked along, holding it close as you make your way down to the living room. Your camera is hanging loosely from its strap around your neck, swaying with your every step as you make your way through the uncharacteristically-quiet cabin and down to the lab. Though you’re curious as to _why,_ you’re hopeful it’s a blessing and not a foreboding warning. Because really, you need to get some work done.

When you make it down, Ford is already sitting at his messy workspace, hair looking like his fingers have been run through it in thought. The man looks tired, and you almost move to mention it before he turns and takes notice of you, leaning back in his chair as he offers a worn smile in your direction. 

“If you’re looking for the eyebat, he’s over there.” Ford points to where a cloth is laid over the mason jar from earlier, the critter having apparently calmed itself from where it was once batting its wings against the glass. 

_What has you all worn out?_ You tease lightly, moving toward where the creature is housed on Fidds’ desk and pulling up a chair as you do. “Oh, the usual. Right now, I’m handling this grant situation, and Fidds is...well, his _lady troubles_ never seem to cease, and he tends to ramble about them.”

You chuckle lightly at that, settling into the chair at Fiddleford’s desk and removing the cloth from the eyebat’s container, watching the sleepy little thing stir at the low light. _Well, that’s why I try not to date where I’m researching. Gets messy,_ you hum the words, picking up the jar and lifting it to get a better look at the little guy, turning the glass in hand as you start to inspect. 

You’re pushing your journal open when Ford hums, a sound half in-amusement, and half questioning. “Is that so?” Without knowing why, your cheeks start to burn, a kernel of almost dread starting to fall to the pit of your stomach. 

_Mmhm,_ you answer simply, starting to write down a few general observations of the thing ahead of you instead of engaging in whatever the hell he could be implying. Jesus Christ, no thank you. 

“F came down and told me you and Stanley were becoming...friendly,” he explains, and you hope he doesn’t notice that your pen stills from where it had been writing on the page. His voice seems even more amused when he starts again, so you think he noticed anyway, “Is that the case?”

Now, Ford is a friend. Even if you had been seeking...romance, or what-have-you, with Stan, it wouldn’t be an issue. You...think. But, since they’re _brothers,_ well…

_Not in whatever sense you’re implying, Ford._ Despite your words, your face continues to burn, feeling almost as though you’d been caught in a lie. Though, you haven’t been. Nope. No fraternizing here, even if you’ve thought about...well, the mind wanders, so what?

Ford seems to notice this tension, and you hear the dull rolling of an office chair toward you before six fingers land to squeeze at your shoulder, his voice fond. “I don’t mean to _imply_ anything. I’m just...suggesting, you know, that…it’s okay. To..do. That.” 

When you turn to look at him over your shoulder, putting the jar down into your lap, his brows quirk a fraction. You’re sure the heat on your cheeks is a little visible in some way or another, and his reaction seems to confirm it, though he softens into a smile before you can worry too much about what he’ll say. 

_B-Besides, when do I have time? We’re constantly running and going—which is very fun, mind you, and I wouldn’t want to—_

“Ford! We’ve got it set up! Come on!” Fidds’ voice comes from upstairs, the creak and slam of the screen door following him as he assumedly heads back outside. “Ah!” Ford stands, a new excitement in his eye as he quickly pats his pockets, looking for something. 

“The tracking device we had to finish up with today is ready--I hope. This is _technically_ a trial run, but.” Ford points to the jar in your lap, nodding excitedly, “If you don’t mind, could you bring that up with you?” You nod, a little surprised at the sudden burst of excitement, but grateful for the attention to be shifted away from you for another blessed moment. 

You hastily scribble down a few extra notes about the creature, hopeful you’ll be able to read your own writing when you get back to it later. Shifting your things in your hands, you push the journal beneath your arm, your pen behind your ear, and you securely hold the glass jar with both hands as you follow Ford up the stairs. The excitable man hurries from the door, quick, long strides taking him out from the house and through the squeaky screen door, which you barely catch with a foot kicked out in front of you, making your own way outside with the curious bat watching up at you.

When you catch up to Ford, you see the ‘new toy’ in question. Stan is standing beside it, absently rubbing at his lower back with a mutter while Fidds is tapping at the console of the thing, watching the radar map on the screen come to life. 

“Yes!” Fidds perks, turning to look at you and Ford with glee. Stan turns at that, catching your eye and straightening himself up as he meets your gaze. You offer a little smile, which he returns, moving to rub at the back of his head, and you quirk a brow in his direction, reminding him of his earlier injury. He remembers then, his smile lifting a little more as he ‘begudgingly’ drops his hand back to his side. 

The eyebat flaps its wings against the jar at the realization it is outside again, seemingly confused as to why it hasn’t taken off in flight. You have to hold to the jar a little tighter, looking at Fidds and Ford in question. 

“We put the trackin’ device on him when he was sleeping—Ford was scared t’death that the little guy would wake up halfway through, but it was painless. Y’can see it, right there.” Fiddleford takes a step closer, pointing to the bat through the glass. You spy the little black chip that sits on the edge of one wing, a red light blinking there that you hadn’t noticed before. 

_Huh...this won’t affect his flying, will it?_ You ask, having grown maybe a little fond of the friend in the jar (who does _not_ feel the same about you, if the way he batters his wings against the glass is any indication). Ford shakes his head, “No, not at all. Though, the light may attract mates or...something. Species are odd about that kind of thing—but, that’s why it’s as inconspicuous as possible.” The brunet grins, reaching to take the jar from your hands, “I’m excited to see what our little friend has to offer.” 

_Wait!_ You say suddenly, remembering that you haven’t done the thing you’d meant to do in the first place. You turn, finding Stan standing next to the machine, leaning against the thing now. When he looks down at you with a raised brow, you quickly push the jar into his hands, pulling your camera from where it had been forgotten around your neck. 

“Huh—Oh! Right, here…” Stan remembers what you’re needing and moves to hold the jar a little further away from himself as you fumble with your camera, fiddling with the flash and hoping the setting sun won’t mess up the picture too badly. 

Fidds and Ford share a look you only catch from the corner of your eye, and you hear Stan hiss through his teeth. You glance up at the closer twin to catch Stan staring daggers at the other two, his cheeks lightly pink—or, maybe that’s just a trick of the light from the setting sun. When he notices you looking, his face softens, clearing his throat as he nods down to the camera in your hand, “Go ahead, toots. Get your picture, so we can let the little bastard go home.” 

You smile gratefully at him as you nod, adjusting your camera in hand and looking through the viewfinder to square up the picture, Stan shifting himself even further out of the frame as you do. You frown, looking up at him from over your camera, _You’re allowed to be in the shot, Stan._

“O-Oh, well, I...figure, you know, this isn’t my entry into your journal--it’s this guy’s! Don’t wanna steal his thunder.” He grins cheekily, and you quirk a brow at him unamusedly. 

_I’m worried you’ll drop the jar, Stanley._

“Well, she’s got a point.” Fiddleford muses as he’s turned back around to the console, looking over his shoulder at the two of you. Ford sighs, unamused as he stands with his arms crossed next to the machine, “At any rate, could we move it along? We’ll lose daylight soon.”  
Stanley rolls his eyes at his brother, blowing upward at the hair that’s slightly overgrown to fall in his eyes, and you giggle at the motion, catching his attention. He looks at you with quirked brows, and you start to raise your camera again at the look, his demeanor shifting some. He stands up taller, holding the glass jar against his chest as he poses himself for the camera, and you look through the viewfinder again to see him quickly suck in a breath to tuck away his gut and puff out his chest, his smile broad and genuine. 

His motion makes you laugh as you click the button, the flash blinding out white before it disappears. In the instant that the light fades away, there’s the sound of shattered glass.

“Shit!” Stan yells, looking down at the shattered mason jar as a black blur flies upward from it, the eyebat taking hurried flight far, _far_ above you and the boys. Its wings beat quickly away, and Ford swears as he can do nothing but watch the creature flit away. “Well...I suppose it’s good we were planning to release it tonight, anyway. Though, it may be a lost cause to follow it tonight.” 

“But look!” Fidds says excitedly, quickly patting Ford’s arm and gripping him by the long sleeve to pull him toward the console. Ford looks in surprise at Fidds before looking at the screen, watching it come to life as the little red dot blinks in the same direction as the eyebat. 

“Yes!” Ford laughs, excitement bubbling up and showing in his face. He looks to you and Stan, and you nod to the excitable twin, turning your head toward the other to find him still looking up where the eyebat had disappeared to. Stanley looks down to meet your eye and smiles, then grins wider at his twin’s excitement, moving quickly closer to clap Ford and Fidds’ shoulders in triumph. “You’ve done it! Look at the li’l bastard go, _Jesus_ he can fly…” He laughs, the three of them staring in awe at the red dot as it goes across the screen. 

In all the hullabaloo, you finally recognize the feeling of the mechanisms of your camera working, and you catch your printed picture as it starts to fall from its slot, giving it a good shake as you listen to the guys chatter on excitedly about their newest device.

Fiddleford glances back at you and motions you forward to look too, and you join in next to Ford with a grin, hearing him babble on about how this new technology will affect how he’s able to research the creatures of Gravity Falls, and Fiddleford is beside you, reaching to slap Stan’s hands away from the screen because “Fingerprints, Stanley!”, and you laugh between them as you turn to look at the shaken-and-developing picture in your hand. 

There’s Stan front and center, sucked-in-gut and grinning like mad with a blurry jar in his hands--the eyebat inside apparently having been startled by the flash of light as it reflects off the glass. Even as upset as you are about the ruined picture of the eyebat, you can’t stop from smiling at the goofy man in the picture, with his grin wide and dimple on display, his amber eyes looking at you through the lens of the picture. 

“Aw, shit,” Fidd’’s voice comes from over your shoulder and you look back at him, feeling your face start to get warm when you realize you’ve not been paying attention, “The eyebat didn’t even get in the picture! It’s just your smilin’ mug, Lee.”

Stanley and Ford come to join over your shoulders, looking at the picture, though you only feel your face get warmer as Stan moves to take the thing from you, his fingers lingering against yours. 

“Dammit! I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to just...make it about me. God knows the next time we’ll find one of those things, too…” Stan groans, looking down at the still-developing picture with upset. He doesn’t seem to notice the new nickname he’s called you, though you _definitely_ do, grateful for the setting sun adding its red tinge to everything, because it might cover up the heat you feel across your nose and cheeks. 

_It’s alright, really,_ you quickly say, reaching to take the picture back and looking at Stan with a smile, _I-It’s just...a good addition to the blooper pictures I take. Remind me to show you those sometime, they’re a riot._ You grin, holding the picture closer to your chest as you speak. Ford shakes his head, pointing to the dot on the device, “Well, we’ll at least be able to see the little guy again, else fails. But, for now, you...may just have to take a picture of my drawing. Or try your own hand again.” He grins, and there’s almost a bit of teasing in his voice. After all, he was your lab partner through college, he _knows_ your skill level (or, maybe, lack thereof). 

Stan doesn’t look to the screen, catching your eye again as Fidds moves to slap Ford’s hand away (“Fingerprints!!”), meeting your gaze with a smile as the two begin to bicker. You look down at the picture again, then back up to his face, huffing a little chuckle as you shrug, _It captures you quite nicely._

“I s’pose it’s not the worst picture I’ve taken--pretty sure _that’s_ in some yearbook somewhere, though.” He laughs, and you smile with him. You nibble into your bottom lip, moving to say something about the new nickname, but he stops you with a step forward, the crunch of shattered glass interrupting whatever words you could have said.

“I, uh...guess I should get somethin’. Sweep this up.” Stan murmurs, looking down at the remnants of the glass jar before glancing back up to you. You swallow as you nod, motioning your head toward the house, _I-I think I should turn in. Been a long, exciting day._

“Heh, that it has, hon--Toots. _Toots._ ” Stanley quickly corrects himself with a cough and a clear of his throat, his cheeks pink when he looks up at you to see if maybe, you’d noticed.

You had, in fact. Just like you had the _first_ time, too. Warmth blooms in your chest, much like it had earlier, and it starts to travel up your cheeks all over again despite yourself. Illuminated by the porchlight, you see Stan’s cheeks going red, too. You figure he must have realized you noticed, and though you aren’t sure if his blush is from embarrassment or endearment (or even both), you nod, giving him the extra confirmation. 

_Goodnight, Stanley,_ you say gently, fondness leaking into your voice as you hold the picture close, moving up the porch stairs. 

“G’night, hon.” He says just as gently, watching you head up the back porch and through the squeaky screen door once more, the creak of the rusted hinge only bothering you a little bit as the words linger in the air. You almost stop on the other side of the screen, though for what reason, you are unsure. The warmth in your chest blooms further and you steal a glance over your shoulder, finding the man bashfully rubbing at the back of his neck as he watches you go, and you quickly hurry on your way further into the home, down the hallway, and back up the stairs by-two.

When you shut your bedroom door behind you, you find yourself leaning back against the wood, realizing that you’re still holding the portrait to your chest. You look down at it, trying to fight the smile that bubbles forth all at once to your lips, and you snicker at the hilarity of the picture itself, and at your own ridiculousness. You’re just...getting closer as friends. He’s friendly. He’s got tender nicknames for everyone, you’re sure--you’ve just upgraded from ‘toots’ (which might be a preferable change, you think). But…

Even so, you’ve got this prime picture. Sure, it’s a little off-the-wall and goofy, but...it’s good, nonetheless. Something Stan said makes you think, and you move toward the little writing desk you’ve situated beneath the triangular-shaped window of the attic, pulling your journal toward yourself as you flip to an empty page. You figure, it couldn’t hurt to have an entry about him, could it? 

No, definitely not. He counts as a ‘creature’ from Gravity Falls. 

You reach for your pen, pushing down the page of the book and giving the spine another little stretch as you lean down to write, pushing the picture into its place with the little fold-ins built into your journal. Once you’re pleased, you sit back with a smile, admiring your work as you read your penmanship across the top of the page.

_Stanley Pines._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all are actually enjoying these weekly updates! i've never done something like this before so, i'm not the most sure what i'm doing lol. 
> 
> request from me on tumblr @piningfor-pinestwins  
> or find me on twitter @niccygayboi for goofs and gaffs!


	5. Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You catch Stan’s eye when he stands straight again, crossing his arms across his chest with a warm smile your way. He must have dressed too warmly for the morning, you imagine, as he’s only in his clingy undershirt, standing next to a long-sleeved t-shirt that’s draped across the wall of the truck bed. 
> 
> _...Huh._ Normally, you wouldn’t really notice that. You think.

You’ve definitely slept in, you realize, as you wake to the sound of Fidds’ truck coming up the makeshift gravel driveway, the engine sputtering back to sleep and two doors slamming closed with laughter making its way up to your window. You glance over to your clock, bleary eyes focusing on the time. It’s only 11:00, but that’s _late_ for the work you’ve been doing here. Plus, you remember, you need to do laundry. 

Dressing in what you have left of your clean clothes for the day (save for the socks--those, you had to recycle from the day before, even if it made you wrinkle your nose to do so), you put your laundry basket on your hip and make your way down the stairs, socked feet making the now-familiar trek down to the living room, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room. After throwing in everything (really not being mindful of the colorful clothes vs. the neutrals), you start the wash, making your way back into the kitchen with a thoughtful hum. 

Coffee’s already been made, to no surprise, but your mug is already thoughtfully set out on the counter, waiting for you. You smile a little to yourself, lifting the mug from the counter to bring it closer to the coffee pot, but you stop at the scrap of a note left underneath. 

‘Hey toots, sorry again about the picture. I figure you’d still want one for your journal for now, so I made my best attempt, just for you. -Stan’ 

You snicker at the little doodle of an eyeball with wings, taking an extra moment to regard it. It really isn’t _too_ bad--not up to Ford’s standards, perhaps, but you’re plenty happy with the thing. You carefully slide it into your back pocket, filling your mug with your coffee and the extra fixings before making your way through the back door, hearing the notorious creaky door slamming behind you as you step onto the porch. 

“There she is!” Fiddleford chirps, grinning wide in your direction as you come further to the edge of the porch, not wanting to get your socks more dirty by stepping in the grass. “We were wonderin’ when you’d be up.” 

Fidds is sitting on the open tailgate of his truck, Ford and Stan standing in the truck bed as they situate the hefty tracker upright and in position. 

“Ah, good! Glad to see you awake and..hopefully very well-rested, given the time.” Ford teases lightly, glancing down at his watch and quirking his brows at the time before looking back up to you with a smile. 

_Running around with a potentially-rabid creature is exhausting, it seems,_ you shrug, lifting your coffee mug to make your point and taking a sip with a smile. You catch Stan’s eye when he stands straight again, crossing his arms across his chest with a warm smile your way. He must have dressed too warmly for the morning, you imagine, as he’s only in his clingy undershirt, standing next to a long-sleeved t-shirt that’s draped across the wall of the truck bed. 

_...Huh._ Normally, you wouldn’t really notice that. You think.

“Well, you sure timed it right— _I_ should’a slept through this and let these two lift this damn thing in here by themselves. Maybe that could’a saved me the backache I’ll have in an hour or two.” Stan chuckles, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turns to pick up what’s now been confirmed as his shirt. 

“I _told_ you to lift with your legs, knucklehead.” Ford scoffs, narrowly avoiding Fidds as he hops down from the tailgate. Stan snorts, tossing one leg over the wall of the truck and straddling the thing as he pulls his shirt on, “Yeah, well, if I wasn’t the one doin’ most the lifting, it’d be easier for me t’lift properly.” 

Though his voice is muffled through the bit of fabric, you can still hear the smile in it. You watch him struggle for a moment before his head pokes into view, a huff escaping his lips as his broad arms push into the sleeves. He tugs it down his waist and straightens the shirt out as he puts a hand in front of him, using the wall of the truck as leverage as he hoists himself out of the thing. 

It’s not until Fiddleford clears his throat that you realize you’d been staring. 

_S-So what exactly are we doing with the new tracker?_ You stammer, leaning on one of the porch’s support beams as you look at the trio (and pointedly ignore Fidds’ smirk pointed in your direction, the rude boy). 

“We’re moving it further from the cabin. Figure if the thing is too close to the house, it might pick up some funky frequencies, they said.” Stan nods toward Fidds and Ford, catching the smirk that Fiddleford tries to wipe from his face. He quirks a brow and glances to you next and you quickly avoid his eye, finding a few birds flying into the forest much more interesting in that moment. 

“We don’t want it to affect anything else we’ll be working on.” Ford explains simply with a shrug, looking you over for a moment before frowning, pointing to your feet, “Shoes?”

_Oh, am I going?_

“You’ll need to know where the tracker is just as much as we do--and you have some say in where it should go, too. This is your research, too.” Ford grins, leaning back against the truck as he looks at you. 

_...Oh! Well, give me a minute, then._ You turn back toward the house, bringing your mug back up to your lips and taking a longer drink of your coffee as you pull open the screen door, making your way back in. You’re excited to take a little trip out of the cabin, even if it’s just to take the new toy a little deeper into the foliage of the woods. Who knows, maybe the four of you will find something new again today? Or...not, it’s not exactly like these creatures come on command. 

It only takes you a few minutes to finish off your coffee and switch your laundry to the dryer before you pull on your shoes, doing up the laces before making your way out the backdoor again. This time, Stan is leaning back against the shut-up tailgate, idly fidgeting with his sleeve as he waits for you. Fidds is peeking into the back of the truck, ensuring that the device is good and strapped in for the ride, with Ford over his shoulder doing the same. 

You catch Stan’s eye first, the man pushing his hair from his eyes with a quiet smile as he quirks his brows at you. “Y’ready for your day?” You shrug at his question, shoving your hands into your pockets as you smile back, _As ready as I’ll ever be, with you three._

Stan snorts at that, crossing his arms as he leans back against the vehicle, “You knew what you signed up for when you agreed to be in Gravity Falls, didn’t ya?” His voice is teasing, but his gaze holds a fondness that you can’t quite place, a new softness there that you feel as much as you see. You huff a laugh, shrugging, _No, but I guess you were a pleasant surprise. Y-You and Fiddleford, I mean,_ you quickly correct yourself, clearing your throat as you glance down. 

He notices the flub in words, his smile widening before he quickly rubs at his chin, fingers touching his lips to cover the upward tilt of his grin. When you meet his eye again, you can tell he’s at least _trying_ to save your dignity, though the dimple in his cheek and the amused glint in his eye give him away. 

“Well, it’ll be a tight fit, but we should get going.” Ford hums, patting the truck once he’s finished eyeing the gadget inside. _Tight fit?_ You question, turning to look at him instead of entertaining Stan with any more misspeakings (though, as you hear the snort behind you, you realize you’ve done it anyway).

“Th’truck’s only meant to hold three at a time, and even with the three of us, there’s not much elbow room. Someone may have to sit in a lap.” Fiddleford twirls his keyring on his finger as he speaks, getting a little cocky until the thing nearly flies away and he quickly fumbles to catch the jingling keys from midair. You can’t help the snicker that escapes you, hearing Stan and Ford’s laughter alongside your own. Fidds huffs a laugh behind an exasperated pant, pointing his keys in your trio’s direction, “And jus’ for that, I’m driver. Y’all get to argue about who’s sittin’ where.” 

“You were going to be driver anyway--it’s your truck!” Ford argues with a laugh, and Fidds turns his back on your research partner as he saunters toward his truck, opening the door and flashing a smirk over his shoulder as he settles into the truck, “Hurry up!”

Ford scoffs in mock exasperation as he turns to look at you and Stan again, throwing his hands up in almost-annoyance. Without saying anything, the twins look to eachother, then to you with matching quirked brows, expectant for your answer for which lap you’ll end up in. Your cheeks start to warm when you realize what they’re waiting for, opening your mouth to stammer a, _Oh, nono I’m fine sitting in the bed of the thing. I can make sure our tracker doesn’t tip over._ You motion to the gadget in the back of the truck and the twins glance back at it, too. 

“If you’re...sure.” Ford looks at you uncertainly, then glances over to Stan with a shrug, “It shouldn’t be a long drive, anyway; there are only a few inconspicuous spots around the woods where it isn’t likely to be...well, destroyed, somehow.” 

“Oh, toots...c’mon, you go sit in the truck. I’d be pissed if Sixer strapped the damn thing in wrong and it fell on ya.” Stan looks at you apologetically, rubbing at the back of his neck. Ford scoffs at his brother’s words, “I’m sure it’s _fine,_ Stanley. Though...well, do what you want to. Like I said, it won’t be a long drive.” Ford offers a quick smile before he moves to open the passenger side door, deciding to wait to see who ends up in the middle seat.

_Stanley…_

“No, really! It don’t bother me, and it’s a quick ride. Might even be fun.” He grins, “This shirt’s a li’l hot anyway, the breeze’ll be nice.” You look at him uncertainly, your mouth screwed up into a frown before you glance back at where Ford’s standing in wait. You sigh, not wanting to let the man sit in the back of the truck (and, truthfully, not really wanting to yourself). You almost feel foolish, especially as something in the very back of your mind questions why it would be such a bad thing to sit in a lap... in _his_ lap, in the first place. It’s all friendly, right? No motives, no strings…

“Can we get a move on?” Fidds asks in impatience from inside, his head peeking back over his carseat to look at the both of you out the back window. Your cheeks burn as you wave off Fidds’ question, and Stan takes a step closer as he ducks to meet your eye, his voice softer now. “Really, it’s no problem at all. It’s just a short trip.” 

His face is close to yours, and you’re more than certain he can see the way your embarrassment has pooled in your cheeks, and you almost expect to be teased about it, but his gaze is still as warm and gentle as it had been when you came back outside. Stan nods, shooting you a wink as he shoos you to where Ford is watching and waiting, moving to put his foot on the bumper and hoist himself into the back of the thing, “Don’t let them listen to shit music though, alright?” 

_I won’t,_ you chuckle, avoiding Ford’s eye for a moment longer as you quickly slide past him and into the vehicle, looking down at the seat while you fumble with your buckle and Fidds starts the car. Stan slaps on the truck to alert Fidds that he’s ready, and Ford shuts his door as he closes you between himself and Fiddleford and yes, indeed, you three are squeezed in this truck with not much space between you. You thank your stars that you’re comfortable with your housemates by now, otherwise this would be a lot more...well, awkward. Instead, as Fiddleford starts the drive, you reach in front of yourself and fidget with the radio until you find something that could pass as ‘not-shit-music’, a smile playing on your lips as you yell toward the open window, _Is this good enough for you?_

“Perfect!” Is the response you get, a chuckle in his voice when you hear him over the engine, gravel crunching under the tires as Fidds pulls from the cabin and out toward the dirt road that’s been carved into the forest floor from use.

F’s hand rests outside the window, fingertips tapping along to the beat as he drives one-handed, taking Ford’s directions as they come. You glance behind yourself now and then, just to be assured that the hefty tracker hasn’t crushed the twin in the back of the truck. You smile as you see him in the rearview mirror, bobbing his head to the music. He glances over his shoulder, turning his head more when he sees you, and you aren’t sure what his expression is, but it makes something in your chest feel warm. Stan glances in the rearview, meeting your eye and in an instant you see his own eyes widen, a sheepish grin spread on his cheeks as he turns back around to watch his surroundings, his back against the cab, a mirror image of where you sit.

It really _isn’t_ a long drive, and you think you almost recognize where in the woods you are from the times you’ve been here. Ford gets out as soon as the truck is stopped and you follow, feeling the way the vehicle bounces slightly from Stan jumping out of the back. Fidds follows suit, coming around to the tailgate and standing with his hands on his hips as he glances around the area. 

“Y’think? What if ol’ Scampy decides to come lay his claim here again?” 

“Then we’ll be able to track _him_ too, Fiddleford! Besides, it’s metal. Won’t burn too easily at all.” Ford grins to his companion, very proud of their work. Stan grunts as he rubs at his back, the ride apparently having been a little bumpier from where he sat. Your chest twinges with guilt, deciding you’ll have to let him sit in the truck on the way back, instead. 

“Yeah, but it’s metal.” Stan points out, looking to the two with a quirked brow as one hand rests at his own lower back. “...Yes, exactly…?” Ford questions, a brow quirked to his brother. 

“It’s metal, and it rains here about twice a week, if not more.” Stan explains, pointing back with his thumb to the tracker. 

_Why not put it there?_ You ask, pointing to the familiar cave in which you found the Scampfire on your first outing, _If I remember right, there’s only way in and out, and it’ll shield from the rain fine enough._

“Oh, that’d be perfect!” Fidds grins, looking to Ford with a nod, “It’ll be a fine base for a tracker, an’ it’s inconspicuous enough that none o’the critters are likely to get suspicious of it.” Ford rubs at his chin, glancing between the device and toward the cave as he thinks. 

“I suppose it’s far enough from the house, and the cave _should_ be big enough, I think.” Ford nods, smiling in your direction. “Good thinking! Fidds--could you back this thing closer to the cave?”

“This _thing_ is Betsy, Stanford, and she an’ I’d both appreciate it if you gave her that respect.” Fidds scolds, putting a careful hand on the top of the truck--sorry, _Betsy,_ and giving her a little pat. Stan chuckles, and you smile behind your hand when you meet Stan’s eye, the brunet taking the few steps closer to you to murmur a quick, “I think there’s trouble in paradise,” behind a snicker. Ford seems to hear it, though, pink cheeks pointed in your direction as his gaze bores into Stan. 

“ _Stanley,_ would you be so kind as to help us load the tracker out of the--Betsy, out of Betsy?” Ford breathes an exasperated huff through his nose, and Stan lets out another snort as he flashes you a smirk and an eyebrow wiggle, and you shake your head at his implication. After all, Stan Pines can’t hold back from a dirty joke.

“You’ve got it. Fidds, you start backin’ her up, I’ll tell you when.” Stan moves away then, giving you one last wink for good measure as he heads up toward the cave. You laugh fully then, covering your smile with your fingertips as you watch him go. He’s entirely proud of himself at hearing you laugh, glancing over his shoulder at you with a bright grin. “Alright, Fidds! Bring’er back!” Stan calls over the starting engine, watching Fidds pull forward and put his truck into reverse. Ford follows alongside the thing as Stan waves him backward, and you make your way up the path to the cave that Stan had taken, rolling up your sleeves when you make it up to stand beside him as he signals for Fidds to stop.

“Oh, smart idea, toots.” Stan mumbles, remembering something as his hand comes to the back of his neck, giving an unceremonial tug at the scruff and pulling his long-sleeved shirt off, leaving his white tank top beneath. You watch the fabric pull from his shoulders and arms, looking over his body as he half-heartedly folds the shirt and tosses it onto a nearby stone. His chest hair shows out of his neckline, peeking out just a little. Stan turns to catch you looking, arching his brow toward you as he smirks. “Sorry, does this bother you?” 

You blanch at being caught looking, huffing a quick laugh as you shake your head, _N-No! I was just--ah, checking for tattoos, actually._ You hope the extra, slightly-exaggerated once-over you give him is convincing enough, his eyes widening as you double down at the motion. _D-Doesn’t seem there’s any, m-my mistake!_ Your cheeks are on fire as you look him in the eye, standing your ground.

“Ah, not true, actually--” He murmurs, surprising you. Stan tugs at one side of tank top, tilting his jaw to one side and now you _really_ get a good eyeful of him and the slightly-faded ink resting beneath the fabric. It’s a rose, probably the length and width of your pointer finger, the detail only just slightly obscured by the chest hair in the way. “I got it back when I turned 19--rebellious phase, or whatever.” 

“I don’t think you ever grew out of that one, knucklehead.” Ford calls with a smirk, stepping on top of the tire and leaning against the truck to undo the straps securing the tracker in while Fidds steps from the truck, moving to help on the opposite side. Stan rolls his eyes, flicking Ford the bird as he looks at you with a little smirk, releasing his tank top and letting the fabric fall back into its place. 

_Oh! Well, it’s very pretty,_ you smile, feeling only a little more foolish at the playful look he’s giving you. “Thank you very much. My ex-wife didn’t think so much, you should’a heard the earful she gave me for it.” Stan winks, his grin wide and eyes bright as he claps his hands and rubs them together, pulling the latch that opens the tailgate and nodding to the other two as he takes a couple steps forward, somehow acting as though he didn’t just drop a new mount of information on you all at once. Even as you blink, he’s moving ahead, “Hey, you two actually going to do any lifting this time, or are’ya gonna make me do the majority again?”

“Alright, alright, Stanley, we get it. You know, Ford and I do pretty fine on our own, too.” Fiddleford argues with a grunt, pushing the thing and shifting his grip to get better leverage as Ford moves to help on the other side. 

“Oh, yeah?” Stan grunts, lifting the device with the help of the other two, “Then why’s she here to help you study?--Hon,” he adds, and you snap out of your thoughts at his slightly-strained voice. He groans softly, jerking his neck to one side as you step closer, reaching for the device and ready to help, “N-Nah, just--make sure none of us step on somethin’ and trip, would you? I don’t want this heavy fuckin’ thing to land on any of us, least of all you.”

“Good to know you care, Stan.” Ford huffs, already a little out of breath as the trio lugs the hefty tracking cabinet off the truck, the little thing looking much more healthy without the load atop it as the boys struggle to take the tracker to its new home. You move quickly behind Stan, your hands instinctively landing at his shoulders as you guide him backwards into the cave entrance. _Careful!_ You remind, _There’s a dip in the ground here, watch your step._

“Thanks,” Stan grunts, gritting his teeth as they finally set the thing down. You pull your hands away from his shoulders, barely sliding past him and the cave wall now that the device has been settled in. As you move away, the other two are taking a step back to admire their work and catch their breath, Stan making the shuffle at your side to come around to the front of the device. 

_Great! I think this will work perfectly,_ you grin, looking at your research partners in excitement. Fidds nods, rubbing lightly at his wrist as he steps closer, “Y’picked the perfect spot for it! Good work.” He grins your way, laying a hand on your shoulder with a little pat of encouragement. 

As the four of you are admiring the newest tracking site, there’s a low rumble from outside, the force of it making the ground tremble beneath your feet. It’s brief, but it happens again, and then again, the force of the rumbling beneath your feet making you wobble with it. 

_A-Are these earthquakes?!_ You shout the question over the next rumble, looking to Ford with worry as another rumble jostles you, reaching to hold at the cave wall for any semblance of support. 

“No! Gravity Falls doesn’t experience e-earthquakes like this--” He stammers, taking a step toward the cave entrance. Ford leans against the opening, gazing out with a quiet gasp. “Steve!”

_Steve?_ You ask, shaky legs coming beside Ford to look out and see who in hell this ‘Steve’ may be. The other two come close behind, four heads poking out of the cave entrance to see one large, _large_ obscured figure, his body hidden amongst the vast trees. The only thing visible about the gargantuan is a peering eyeball from between the trees, and with another raucous rumble that nearly sets you off-kilter, one large hand begins to emerge through the trees reaching straight toward--

_“Betsy!”_ Fidds cries, watching wide-eyed as the creature lifts the truck off the ground and pulls it into the swath of trees. Fiddleford bolts out of the rocky entrance, nearly taking a fall as another of the creature’s steps rattles the world around you. “Fiddleford, no!” Ford yells as his friend hotfoots it into the waiting woods. “Shit,” he swears, stumbling on his feet as he makes his way down from the cave and chases after the hillbilly, “Fiddleford, don’t be a fool!” 

You watch as the both of them chase where the truck has disappeared to, turning to look at Stan slack-jawed both at the situation and what you’ve both just seen. You move first, looking around the cave floor for Fidds’ keys, thinking of anything that may work. 

_H-How can we help?! Where are his keys--oof!_

With another more urgent rumble, the ground really does rattle under your feet, catching you while your ankles are at a weird angle and knocking you off your feet. Stan reaches to catch you as another rumble makes him lose his footing and you yelp, expecting your nose to collide with the stone floor of the cave and waiting for the impending **crack--**

But instead, you land face-first into Stan’s chest, the warmth of him radiating through the fabric of his shirt and into your already quickly-heating cheeks. “H-Hey, are you alright?” Stan asks, his voice just a little strained but so much louder than before. You look up at him slack-jawed, willing your voice to work but feeling your embarrassment only bloom further in your cheeks. 

“H-Here,” He stammers, his own cheeks starting to darken as his hand finds the jingly keys beside the tracker, pushing them into your hand and not moving any further while he stays propped on his elbows beneath you. As you take the keys in hand, you move to sit up on your knees, another rumble keeping you firmly planted right where you are, though now your knees rest on either side of his hips and oh _lord_ if you weren’t embarrassed by the positioning before, you are now. 

“Hon, w-what are you tryin’ t’do?” Stan asks gruffly, his voice still strained as you press your palm to his chest and finally sit up by some miracle, fidgeting with the keyfob in your other hand and praying as you press the PANIC button.

You hear, by some miracle, the blaring sirens and horn of ol’ Betsy, notably further than you’d expect the keyfob to reach (though, it wouldn’t surprise you if Fiddleford had fudged the programming of the thing to let it stretch further distances). 

One more rumble nearby shakes you, the hand on Stan’s chest keeping you upright this time as the man beneath you tenses. You can feel his chest hair tickling at the tips of your fingers, his pulse thudding beneath your palm from what you assume is fear. You look down at the man and find his gaze pointed right back up at you, something unreadable in his amber eyes and a deep flush settled into his cheeks. Heat pools low in your belly, something affecting you more than your embarrassment in the moment, and at the realization of _what,_ you quickly scramble to move away, landing on your ass on the cold stone floor of the cave. 

Stan sits up to look at you, his brows raised high and his cheeks crimson, but he quickly coughs into his fist as he moves to stand, offering a hand down to you as he rubs the back of his neck with the other, “What, uh...were you plannin’ to do with the keys?”

_I...was hoping it’d scare ‘Steve’ off._ You admit slowly, uncertainly eyeing his hand before feeling too foolish and reaching up to take it, being pulled up with very little effort on his part. You thank him quietly as you stand, pressing your thighs together and hearing him clear his throat. You avoid looking his way, taking a few steps to peek out of the cave and the button again, and then again. 

“We got her!” Ford’s voice comes from further into the woods, and you raise your eyebrows as you turn to look at Stan in question. He wipes his hands on the thighs of his pants and nods, “I’m right behind ya,” as the both of you start a quick jog in the direction of Ford’s voice. 

“Goddamn thing-- _Steve?_ Why would’ya name it _Steve?!_ ” Fidds questions, standing at the tailgate of his miraculously-in-one-piece truck. “It acts like a Steve!” Ford defends, on his knees at the driver’s side of the truck as he replaces a deflated tire. 

You breathe in relief when you see them--all of them, amazingly enough, in one piece. _What was that?!_ You ask, and Ford’s eyes find you and Stan as you come into view. He huffs something akin to a laugh, shaking his head, “The reason _I_ don’t have a car anymore. I suspect it’s some species of tree giant, and he may have been looking for a snack.”

“It’s best if we walk here from the cabin next time, then.” Fiddleford grumbles, still a little out of breath as he leans against the truck. He looks at the two of you, a question in his gaze that he seems to disregard as he sighs. “Was it one of you who got my keys, or do I have to chase _Steve_ down for them?” He asks, the name coming out with disgust on his lips. Ford snorts from his place at the tire, and Fidds’ head whips to look at the man, and you’re almost certain that if looks could kill, F’s gaze would definitely be maiming Ford as you speak.

_It was me,_ You admit, holding out your palm to show him the keys resting there. His gaze eases as he meets your eye, putting both hands up and catching the keys as you give them a toss. Ford stands as he finishes, moving to put the tire iron back into the bed of the truck, assumedly where he’s also put the previous tire. Fiddleford frowns at the twin as he passes, sighing raggedly while pulling open the driver’s side door, “I need a drink. Anyone else?” 

“Oh, _hell_ yeah.” Stan grins, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in excitement, “We should make a trip into town. It’s been a while since we’ve been out—not since before she came into town, right?” He looks at you to answer and you shake your head, not having really gotten much farther than the woods surrounding the cabin--though, to be fair, you didn’t quite need to. After the first grocery trip, you’d seen pretty much all the town’s center had to offer. 

“See! You deserve yourself a bar trip, too. We should all go.” Stan grins cheekily, wiggling his brows, “I’m sure there’ll be some town locals around, boys.”

“Stanley, you know I’m spoken fer,” Fidds reminds with a little smirk of his own, moving to take his seat in the truck. “Alright, if we’re goin’, you’d better duke it out for who takes the back on the ride home.”

“Woah, woah, we aren’t goin’ _now._ I gotta freshen up, after all this mess!” Stan motions to himself, looking down and remembering he’s left his long-sleeved shirt elsewhere. He rolls his eyes, but refocuses to Fidds, “Just take us back to the cabin. I bet you could use a breather before taking your ‘I’m spoken for’ ass down to the bar, anyway.” He teases Fidds, his smile splitting his cheeks wider as he winks to his friend. 

“Alright, alright, we’ll head home. But really, who is sitting with the tire?” Ford asks, motioning at the thing in the bed of the truck with a quirked brow. 

_I can take a turn,_ you offer, glancing over to Stan out of the corner of your eye, remembering how his back was aching after the drive here. _You three should take it easy, after all the heavy lifting._

“Nah, toots, I couldn’t put you out like that. It’s only what, 10 minutes from here? Maybe 15? I’ll live—“

“Or no one has to. There is _still_ the lap option—well, not mine since I’m drivin’, but.”

_...sure. I don’t mind, really._

At your answer, Stan and Ford both quirk their brows, looking to their mirror image with curiosity. 

“Well, let’s git. I don’t wanna get to the bar and fall asleep drinkin’ because we got there so late.” Fidds tugs his door closed and the engine starts, the truck rumbling to life easily.

There’s a moment, an awkward shuffle between your old friend and your new...well, can you call him a friend? Or...well. Between Ford and Stan. As they glance at each other, you make your way to the truck and pull open the passenger door, _So am I sitting on someone, or is someone sitting on me? Let’s go, boys._

Stan snorts at that, a smile spreading across his cheeks as he looks your direction. “Y’sure we wouldn’t squish ya?”

Ford chuckles to himself as he does a slight jog, taking the door from you and sliding into the middle of the bench seat beside Fiddleford. “Both of us, maybe. Only one of us, though? She’s a strong girl.” He teases lightly, looking at you with a smile. You snicker quietly, flexing your bicep in Stan’s direction. 

Stan chuckles, patting at his own middle as he moves toward the door, and you scoot to the side. “I’m not sure you could handle _all_ of me, hon. Last chance—you want to take the back of the truck or inside with us?”

_It’s cold out, and I don’t trust those clouds,_ you point up at the sky, trying to keep your wits about you. It’s not a big deal to sit on a friend’s lap, especially in a packed car, but it’s that nickname again. From the way he’s grinning at you, you’re almost certain he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

And it’s not that you hate it. In fact, you...hate that you don’t hate it. You almost hate that he can say it so easily, the dimple in his cheek unwavering. The heat in your cheeks starts to return as you nod, confirming once more.

“Alright, if you’re sure.” Stan shrugs, though you think something has shifted in him. When he sits on the bench seat, he offers you a hand without meeting your eye, clearing his throat quietly. You slide your hand in his, the immediate warmth to your skin a relief from the cold out. You hadn’t even realized how chilled your fingers had gotten, but the way his eyes meet yours instantly shows he’s noticed. 

“Y’alright? You should’ve brought a jacket or something, toots.” He says it quietly as you move, being gently pulled to guide you against him. Somehow, even through the fabric of your pants and his, you feel the warmth of his thighs against your ass as you settle in, opting to sit cockeyed as to have one knee between Stan and Ford’s, so you aren’t _entirely_ in his lap. 

He moves for the door with a grunt, muttering something about soreness in his arm as he reaches to grab and pull it shut. Stan rests his palm against the thigh that you aren’t sitting on, closest to the door, and he looks out the window as he clears his throat. 

Fidds pulls at the gear stick beside the steering wheel then, starting your steady drive home as he and Ford quietly argue about the nature and temperament of their new friend Steve. You, admittedly, are not paying a bit of attention at all, instead opting to keep your eyes glued to the view past the windshield, and willing yourself not to think about the warmth of the man beneath you—who, you realize with embarrassment flooding your cheeks, has been beneath you in precarious ways _twice_ today, now. 

Your cold nose is grateful for the newfound warmth in your face, glancing down at your hands in your lap as you tap your thumbs against your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Stan’s hand at his own thigh, his fist clenching and unclenching against the seam of his jeans. You sneak a glance to his face, and though you can’t read his expression, he’s watching diligently out the window, his own cheeks pink as he bites the inside of his cheek. 

“And another thing—you know if you _name_ a thing, it makes you like it more. What’s t’like about that gargantuan assho-OOLD ON!” Fidds yells, taking a hard turn to veer out of the way of a newly-fallen tree. It must have happened while Steve was tromping around, because you don’t remember it being there on the way up. 

As the truck turns sharply, the four of you lean with the force unintentionally. Ford’s body slides further across the bench seat toward you and you do the same, your ass directly in Stan’s lap. He grunts quietly as he’s smushed against the door, turning to look at the two of you as his hand lands on your hip, keeping you from sliding further. Your eyes widen at the touch, tensing to try and keep yourself from leaning against him even more, but the fingers at your hip keep you firmly in place. 

“Could you have given more of a warning?” Ford grits, readjusting himself and murmuring an apology to you as he scoots away. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t expectin’ the damn thing! See, this is exactly why you can’t go encouragin’ big brutes like _Steve,_ ” Fiddleford continues to argue with Ford as though the interruption hadn’t occurred, though more annoyance is in his voice this time. You, however, haven’t moved. Frozen to Stan’s lap, you’re unsure of if moving will help or hurt the position you’re in. You turn to look at him and find his gaze already on yours, his brows quirked and his cheeks only growing more red when your eyes meet. 

_S-Sorry,_ you whisper, shifting away and returning to your original spot only halfway in his lap. “Don’t worry about it,” Is his murmured response, the hand on your hip lingering for just a moment longer before it lands at his own thigh, fingers tapping against the fabric of his jeans. 

Pointedly watching out the windshield the rest of the way to the cabin, you nibble at your bottom lip, a nervousness settling beside the embarrassment in your stomach. Is he upset at you? You wish he was more readable (though, part of you thinks it would be _worse_ to know what he’s thinking right now). 

As Fidds comes to a stop, he pulls his keys from the ignition, opening the driver door as you reach over to take the passenger. You move before Stan does, using the ‘oh-shit’ bar for some leverage as you hoist yourself off his lap. “Careful,” he mutters, one of his hands landing lightly at your lower back to help you steady yourself as you step down to the waiting gravel below. 

You turn toward him with a small smile, pushing some of your hair out of your face as you meet his eye, _Thank you, Stan, for the...help, today._ Almost cringing at your own words, you start to turn to make your way to the cabin, but his soft chuckle stops you. “No problem--anything for you, toots.” 

The sentiment strikes you in a way you don’t expect, your smile spreading wider across your cheeks as you give a little laugh of your own. _Careful saying that, you warn lightly, I might take you up on it one of these days._

“I don’t doubt it.” He teases, shutting the door behind him as his feet find the gravel. “I dunno about you, but I’m gonna get ready for this bar run. Ol’ Stan needs to take a load off.” He grins cheekily your way, sauntering playfully toward the back door, which makes you laugh. _Oh, I’m sure, you poor thing. You do so much around here._

“See! At least _someone_ sees my contributions here!” Stan calls over his shoulder to the other two standing by the driver’s side of the truck, flashing you a wink as he grins and steps into the house. 

“She’s a great liar!” Ford calls in response, a laugh escaping him as his brother whips back to look at him and nearly gets slapped in the face by the creaky screen door. You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from your throat, covering your mouth to muffle the sound as Stan turns away into the house. You watch him go, looking over to Fidds and Ford with a quirked brow. 

_If I’m such a good liar, how do you know when I’ve lied at all?_ You ask, a playful gaze pointed in Ford’s direction as the three of you take your way up to the porch. 

“Are you kidding? You used to say you did all of Dr. Hannigan’s readings when you didn’t even buy the _book._ ” He reminds with a laugh, and Fidds snorts too. You feel yourself grin at the memory, pushing hair from your face as you step into the cabin, making your way up the stairs, _Yeah, I remember. But you hated him, too!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii surprise! early chapter due to halloween being saturday! 
> 
> i literally get so excited every time i get a new comment or bookmark on this fic, it makes me feel so special. thank you for reading, and see you in November! <3


	6. Outings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ignore his gaze, fidgeting with the tuner on the radio and keeping your eyes glued to that, instead. You lean slightly over as he takes a turn into town, and you feel his gaze linger at you for a moment more as you adjust the radio to play something softly. When you sneak a glance, his eyes flick away from your skirt, fingers tapping lightly at the wheel as he casually hums along to the tune coming through the speakers.

You’re probably overthinking as you carry your laundry to your room, hearing the muffled radio playing from Stan’s room as you take the stairs up to the attic. The man was married, is no longer, finds interest in you...you aren’t a _rebound,_ are you?

Well, obviously not. You’re not dating him. You’ve yet to even _kiss_ the man, let alone….go further.

Though, the incident from this afternoon has you thinking about that now, too. Embarrassingly enough, you _can’t stop_ thinking about this afternoon, with his chest beneath your palm, your legs on either side of his thighs, his hips beneath your own--

_No_ , you scold yourself aloud, kicking your bedroom door closed behind you and moving to put the laundry basket of clothes into the chair in front of your little desk. _No strings. You agreed,_ you remind in murmurs, folding your clothes as you go. You relish in the residual warmth from the dryer in the fabric as it touches your fingers, grateful for it in the somewhat-drafty room. Stan is handsome, sure...and kind, and he does respect you and your research. 

...okay, none of those are negatives. Think of negatives. 

He’s impulsive. That could probably be deduced through the fact that he has an ex-wife so young--well...sometimes that’s just how life is, though, so that’s unfair to say. But, he _is_ impulsive. And, he can be hotheaded. You’ve heard a few bickers between Stan and Ford, and the two can get nasty when they want to...though, you think that may be a sibling thing, more than true malice.

...shit. Even the negatives aren’t working.

Well, anyway, he’s likely to have lost interest in you after you’d chewed him out the first time. He’s a smart man, smarter than you think his brother gives him credit for at times, so he knew he crossed a line that night. And with his behavior _after_ today’s incident--even if he was being playful and polite once you got home, you were very much on the receiving end of the silent treatment in the truck. 

And anyway-anyway, you aren’t really looking for anything relationship-wise. Maybe...someone to have a dance with in a bar, share a drink and a laugh, sure, but you’re here to work. You’ve been enjoying your work! You can’t be sidetracked _now._

Though, you’re sure at this point, you deserve a drink or two, and a night out with your research-partners-turned-friends. You think back to one of your last labs with Ford--where the two of you finished up the _godawful_ proportional reasoning examples and rested your weary brains with drinks at yours, so you could effectively forget everything you’d just learned. You snort to yourself at the memory, nibbling at your bottom lip as you pat atop the stack of folded clothes. 

You could wear something...nice, you supposed. Something that isn’t too frumpy, but doesn’t outright scream _look at me and my assets._ ...You still haven’t gotten a feeler for the locals in Gravity Falls, but you’re sure one of the boys would at least humor you with a dance or two, and if Ford’s last night out with you is any indicator, he’s likely still not much of a drinker. 

Moving to your vanity and opting to bother with your hair instead, you push some strands from your face, adjusting it slightly and littering a few bobby pins within your locks to make it fall the way you want. Next is a little rouge, and a little lipstick--just for fun. You don’t often have an excuse to wear it around the eyebats and the gnomes. 

You hear the boys downstairs starting to make more noise, and you figure you’re likely the last one still getting ready. You purse your lips as to not ruin your newly-applied lipstick, quickly looking over the folded things on your bed, and their counterparts on hangers laid out beside them. You quickly decide on a button-up and pull it on, hasty fingers fidgeting with the buttons one-handed as you reach for a skirt with the other hand. You quickly tuck the shirt into your skirt, zipping the fabric into place and readjusting it with a small hum. The two go together well, although the skirt is a little short for the chill outside… 

No matter. The long sleeves on your button-up will keep you warm enough, you decide--well, that and a little bit to drink. You readjust the outfit and move to your closet, pulling some shoes from there and adding them to the rest of the look. _...Hm. Not bad at all._

You make your way to the door and pull it open, starting to take the step out before you stop with a gasp, finding Stanley standing with his arm raised to knock at your no-longer-there door. As his arm drops from his knock, he rubs at the back of his neck clearing his throat. He shoves his other arm into his pocket, and you take the moment to eye him. He cleans up well; his hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing his own button-up whose buttons only start 3 notches down beneath a light blazer. You quickly glance up to meet his eye instead of looking any further, clearing your throat as you arch a brow at him.

“O-Oh, hey! I was just, uh, gonna ask if you were ready to go. Fidds and Ford got impatient, so they went ahead to save us some seats at the bar. So…” He glances you over, motioning a hand in your direction, “Looks like you’re about done! So, uhm...I’ll, meet you downstairs.” 

_Sure! Uhm...be right down,_ you nod, shutting your door. You breathe out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his steps clunk down from your room. Nerves bubble in your stomach and you fidget with your fingertips, inwardly swearing Ford and Fiddleford for leaving you to ride with Stan. Things already felt awkward between you two, you think, and this can only make it worse. 

Well, you figure as you glance at yourself in the mirror, no need to waste a good night just to avoid an awkward car ride. Maybe it could even ease the tension--a couple drinks, maybe a dance? Clearing your throat, you smooth down the fabric of your skirt before snatching up your handbag and holding it close to you, making your way out of your bedroom for real this time. 

“Ah! Good,” Stan clears his throat as you step down the stairs, apparently having been watching impatiently for you. His eyes trail up from your legs, and you swear they linger just a moment at your thighs before his gaze flicks to your face. He shifts, fishing his keys from his pocket with a nod, “Let’s go before Ford and Fidds decide to leave us with the tab,” Stan grins, his gaze set on your own as you make your way down the stairs and to the door, pulling the heavy wooden thing open and stepping out with him in tow.

You pull your purse closer as you stand beside his car, a shiver running through you. The shorter skirt is cute, absolutely, but maybe some high socks or stockings would have kept your legs warm...no matter, though, as Stan turns the key to open the driver door and slides into the bench seat, reaching to pop the locked tab on your door. You slide in and hiss at the cold leather at your thighs as his engine roars to life, and he huffs a little laugh as he glances in your direction. “Beauty is pain, isn’t it toots? But at least y’look good.” He teases lightly, and you scoff a laugh as you shut your door, shaking your head at him.

_You clean up alright too, I’ll give you that,_ you tease back, hearing him snort as he moves the gear shift next to the steering wheel, putting the El Diablo in drive and pulling out with the crunching of gravel beneath his tires. “Y’really think so?” Stan teases with a cocky grin, dimpled cheek leaning your way as he looks over and exaggeratedly bats his eyelashes at you. You laugh fully then, punching into his arm to push him back to his seat, _Don’t push your luck, you still look like Stanford._

“Yeesh, toots! Ouch!” He laughs despite his words, knowing you hold no nastiness in your words. When you look over to him, you find yourself a little lost in that grin, looking over the way he holds the steering wheel with one hand while his hand rests against his thigh. You hadn’t noticed before (or maybe he hadn’t put it on yet), but now you can see beneath the streetlamps that a little gold chain rests nestled somewhere in his chest hair, a peek of his tattoo visible somewhere beneath the line of buttons on his shirt. 

He clears his throat and you glance to find him looking down at you with amusement, one brow quirked as heat floods your cheeks, quickly glancing down to the knob of the radio. _Do you mind if I turned something on?_

“Go right ahead. It don’t bother me.” Stan shrugs, not masking his smirk as he glances over at you again. 

You ignore his gaze, fidgeting with the tuner on the radio and keeping your eyes glued to that, instead. You lean slightly over as he takes a turn into town, and you feel his gaze linger at you for a moment more as you adjust the radio to play something softly. When you sneak a glance, his eyes flick away from your skirt, fingers tapping lightly at the wheel as he casually hums along to the tune coming through the speakers. 

Humming in interest, you perk up as the neon lights of the bar shine into the car windows, the music of the radio blending with whatever tune plays inside. Stan cranks the wheel one-handed to pull backwards into the spot he wants, near the front doors of the bar. When he pulls it into park, he looks at you with a grin. “Alright--the jukebox takes a quarter a song, and Suzanne likes pretty girls, s’make sure to say hi to her so you get a discount.” He winks, pulling the handle of his door open as he turns off the engine. You put a hand on your purse, nerves and excitement thrumming through your belly at the prospect of a night out, but a goofy smile teases at your face at hearing Stan give you some pointers. 

_Don’t get too far gone, alright?_ You tease, turning to look at him but finding he’s already made his way to the brick wall next to the entrance of the bar, cocky smile and all warmth as he chatters with a duo of brunettes. Your smile falters just a little as you see him ignoring you, his gruff laughter filling the conversation as you pass him by, making your way into the bar.

You’re grateful to see the familiar forms of Fidds and Ford, both of them sitting close to the bar, their backs turned to you and the jukebox. There’s a line of quarters near the slot of the thing, and you tut quietly as you move past it, quickly humming the tune it plays as you move along. 

Ford’s wearing a brown blazer over a collared shirt, and Fidds is in a flowy long-sleeved shirt with an open collar, bits of light chest hair poking through. You smile at the sight of them as you put a hand on Ford’s shoulder, and the man turns with a smile to greet you, his cheeks already a little rosy.

“There you are! We were wondering when you and Stanley would ever show up,” He grins, moving to shift down one seat so you’re able to squeeze between him and Fidds. “Well, with Lee, y’can never expect him to be punctual.” Fidds points out, flashing you a quick wink as you settle into the previously-occupied seat. 

“Don’t you look spiffy!” Fidds points out, grinning boldly at you as he motions your way. You laugh, giving him a silly pose or two as your cheeks heat at the attention. Always a sweetheart, that Fiddleford. 

_Well, you gave me an excuse to wear something other than messy research garb or pjs, so I thought I’d fit the part!_ You grin, and Ford chuckles as he shakes his head. “You don’t have to dress any kind of way on our account, by all means,” He smiles at you, quirking a brow your direction as he starts to sip on his half-full glass of something dark, “Though, the barf fairies may decide otherwise for you.” You snort as he grins, amber eyes crinkling in the corners as you nudge him playfully.

It’s then you hear Stan’s familiar laugh, the sound peeking between songs on the jukebox. You glance back at the sound, expecting to see him coming closer but instead seeing him draped over a pool table in the bar, lining up a shot. You smile in amusement, turning more in your chair to watch as he hits the cue ball and sinks two striped balls in one go, his cocky grin spread across his cheeks the whole time he does it. You move to yell for him, a smile playing on your own cheeks, just as a beautiful blonde makes her way to his arm, joining him in a laugh as she does.

She’s beautiful, of that there is no doubt; and the way Stan watches as she talks fuels...something, in your belly. The smile he points in her direction, the way she sidles up to him to murmur something in his ear, unable to discern his rosy cheeks from either her words or his drink… He puts one hand on her hip, moving to settle his own hips behind her as he helps her line up a new shot on the pool table. You watch as she arches her back, a coy smirk playing at her lips as his cheeks flush further, grin wide.

It almost confuses you, the pit that forms in your stomach. You couldn’t quite point out why, and…

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you want something to drink?” A soft voice behind you asks, and you turn to face that instead, almost grateful for the reprieve. The bartender is a woman just slightly older than the three of you, grey flecks in her thick black hair as she quirks her brows at you. 

“Well? Pick your poison.”

You stutter out an order, hearing as Fiddleford snorts from beside you when Suzanne turns away to make your drink. You shoot him a look that he shrugs off, his playful smile warm as he takes another sip of his own drink. “Here’s this for ya, on the house. Haven’t seen you in yet, s’consider this a warm Gravity Falls welcome.” She grins at you, flashing you a wink as she moves along to the next few patrons at the bar.

“That’s Suz,” Fiddleford fills you in, pointing down to the drink she’s set in front of you, “And that, I’d reckon, has twice the booze of a regular drink. Her ‘welcomes’ are very warm.” He winks your way, leaning back in his seat as he reaches for the little dish of unshelled peanuts ahead of the three of you and pops a couple in his mouth.

You hum in acknowledgement, picking up your drink and sipping through the straw as he leans to talk to Ford. You nearly wince because damn, this really is strong--nearly a triple instead of the double you’d ordered, you’d imagine. Nearly coughing as you swallow it down, you start to push your glass away, opting instead to maybe order a soda. Ford notices your wince, offering a snort of his own as he nurses his own drink, “Still aren’t much of a drinker, are you?” You shake your head in response, _It tastes good! Just...strong._

You hear Stan laugh again, closer this time as he and a new lady--a redhead now, sidle up to the other side of the bar. He gives Suz a wink, and she works at a couple of drinks for him and his newest companion. Something in your chest ignites, an unfamiliar ache that burns in a way not unlike the strong drink tinging your tongue. 

Ford moves to wave Suz over and request your backup drink but you reach to pull your first drink closer again, taking a long sip through your straw despite the strong burn it provides. The twin beside you quirks his brows, watching as you drain half of the drink in one go. You can’t stop the way your nose wrinkles when you swallow it down, but it replaces the unfamiliar burn in your chest with a more familiar one, even if it’s equally as uncomfortable. 

“...Well, I suppose if you’re _really_ trying to let loose,” Ford says after you swallow, and your eyes trail to meet his own, “We can try shots, once you finish that. I’m much better at them than I was in college.” He grins at the words, proud of this ‘accomplishment’.

You snort a laugh, your belly warming as you feel the drink settle in, _Really? I may have to test that hypothesis._ Fiddleford snorts at that, shaking his head, “Being able to take _one_ shot isn’t exactly ‘much better’ than before, I’m sure.”

_You didn’t see him before, then!_ You laugh, the three of you dissolving into laughter. Even as you giggle with the duo on either side of you, Stan’s throaty chuckle leaks into the conversation he isn’t even in, the sound of it reminding you of his presence with another woman, not too far away. 

It’s fine, really. Even as you take the next long sip of your drink, you remind yourself that it’s _fine,_ that you two have never moved toward anything like that, your friendship only still growing, but… Is it that you’re happy with it being this way, or that you think this is all you _can_ be happy with?

You quickly stifle a sniffle at the thought, finishing your drink with a decisive cough and a nod, _Shots it is, then. Suzanne? Would you, please..?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry it's late, i didn't forget! it's, been a big and long week for Americans lmao but here's some good fiction to forget the world with!
> 
> love u, and hope you're doing okay! see you next week!


	7. Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Waste not, want not_ , you smirk, your thumb tracing away a bit of the liquid from your bottom lip. Your throat burns, feeling heat in your cheeks too as you meet his eye.

You’re a _strong_ drink and two shots deep, more tipsy than you’ve been in months. Fidds was marginally less far gone, his hands keeping you stable as the both of you sway to the tune on the jukebox. 

“Honeybee, I hate t’say it, but I think we’ll have to call it a night soon. Ford’s fallin’ asleep at the bar.” He chuckles, and you groan, reluctant to stop the slow sway you could call dancing. Plus, the thing you _really_ weren’t looking forward to…

The drive home. With lovely, ever-charming, ever….confusing, Stan. 

_Are you sure? Just one more drink, that’s all_...You slur, hearing your words getting away from you even as you say them. Your mind swims a little, the world still swaying despite the fact that Fidds has stopped your moving. 

“C’mon, you an’ I both know Ford’s gonna get us up early as hell in the morning. It’ll be better if we turn in for the night now, and handle the consequences tomorrow.” You hum in agreement, annoyance leaking into your voice even so. “Would you check in with Stan? See if he’s finally finished peacockin’ around and wants to head home?”

As he makes the request, you feel your mouth screw up to stop from frowning, trying to keep your emotions just below surface level. You glance around the bar to find the man, spying him sitting on his own in a dimmed part of the bar, smoke wisps coming up and around him from the cigar he holds between his fingers. 

Huh. You hadn’t even known he smoked.

Really, you feel ridiculous, as there’s so much about this man that you don’t know, and he keeps giving you reminders of it. The bit about his ex-wife, his smoking, his charm with the people in town… 

Why is it you know so little about him, but feel so connected to him? 

You’re a little slow on your feet as you move toward him, clearing your throat to will your voice forward. His gaze slowly quirks up to meet your eye, his tongue peeking between his lips as he moves to take a slow drag from the cigar.

 _We’re thinking we should head home soon_ , you relay, crossing your arms as you look down where he sits. Taking in the sight of him, he’s lost his blazer, having popped one more button down his chest, more of his delectable chest hair poking out around the edges of the shirt. There’s a swipe of lipstick against his throat, and another of a different shade just below his jaw. If he knows they’re there, he doesn’t mind them, a smile spreading across his cheeks as he looks up at you, “Yeah, I figured. Ford looks like he’s gonna start snorin’ any minute now.”

Stan takes another drag as you turn to glance at his brother over your shoulder, Fiddleford already putting an arm across the man’s back to help him to his feet.

When you turn to face the man again, his eyes are trailing up from your waist, apparently having taken the moment to eye you as he clears his throat, meeting your eye before he moves to stand, cigar clenched between his teeth before his fingers come up to take it. 

“Alright, toots, we should get headed--sucks, though, I’m drivin’, and Suz left me a shot for the road--” He motions to the amber in the shotglass ahead from where he was sitting, moving to put out his smoke in the ashtray beside it. 

You aren’t sure what takes you by storm--the roughness that smoking has brought to his voice, the shades of lipstick on his skin, the warmth of alcohol already pooled in your stomach...but, without a second thought, you swipe up the shotglass and throw back the drink in one go, holding back the violent wince that tries to bubble forth as you set the glass down upside-down. 

_Waste not, want not_ , you smirk, your thumb tracing away a bit of the liquid from your bottom lip. Your throat burns, feeling heat in your cheeks too as you meet his eye. His eyes follow your thumb at your lip before meeting your gaze, his filled with amused surprise. A chuckle escapes him as he shrugs, “Atta’girl--there’s no need to waste good booze, huh?” He winks, haphazardly grabbing at his blazer and tossing it across his arm as he motions you ahead. 

You take two wobbly steps before you catch yourself with a palm to the sticky tabletop, regaining your balance as you make your way to the door. Stan steps behind you and one arm moves to your back. Not quite touching you, but ready in case you lose balance again, a playfulness in his voice, “Didja have fun, honey?” 

_Mmhm,_ you answer, a warm smile playing on your lips as you glance at him over your shoulder. You start to stumble again, but his warm hand lands at your side, fingers against your ribs as he leads you out the door with a wave and “G’night!” back to Suzanne, who idly waves back. 

You step lightly alongside him, forgetting your own lipstick staining your mouth as you bite into your bottom lip. You shudder at a breeze as you’re led from the bar, back toward the familiar sight of the red DeVille you’d come in. The chill is more uncomfortable than earlier, the warmth from the booze in your belly only going so far to help. Stan seems to notice, rubbing lightly against your waist as he nods toward the passenger door. 

“I bet you’re cold, with how short that skirt is,” He murmurs, and you scoff as you cross your arms, gritting through your teeth, _Yeah--not my best idea. Didn’t even do its job._

Stan quirks a brow at that, releasing you and unlocking your side of the car as you lean back against the back door of the thing. “Its job? What, keep y’covered? You look just fine, honest,” he assures you as he opens the door for you and motions you in, the gentleman.

You slide in against the bench seat, ignoring his question of what your skirt’s ‘job’ had been. You hadn’t planned for it to be anything--though… _it would have been nice to catch anyone’s eye._

You don’t even realize you’d murmured the words out loud, but you glance up to catch Stan’s curious stare, his brow furrowed down at you. Warmth blooms in your chest, spying the kissed marks against his skin once more with a wrinkle of your nose, but what startles you is his gaze. You nearly _see_ the cogs turning in his mind, and he clears his throat as he makes sure you’re in the car before shutting your door.

Adjusting in your seat, you eye him uncertainly as he passes around the car to the driver’s side. If you could read minds, you’re not sure you’d want to--at least, not to know what he’s trying to think of you right now. The driver side door is pulled open, and the man slides into his own seat with a little huff, murmuring something about the seat being cold. “ ‘M’sure your ass is freezing with that tiny thing on,” Stan pushes his blazer in your direction without looking at you, his cheeks lightly pinked from the chill outside. You make a move to argue that _obviously_ he’s the chillier one of you two, but another shiver runs through you and you take the fabric from his hands a little quickly, pulling it on over your shoulders instead of across your lap. 

He doesn’t look over as you tug at the blazer, pulling it closed against your chest. You lean against the door, feeling the rumble of the car as the engine roars to life, the radio still playing the station you’d left it on. As you shift in your seat, you rest your head against the window, face cocked in a way that pushes your nose closer into the light-colored blazer. You can smell the smoke from the cigar, oddly sweet in its way as it mingles with his cologne and something else so recognizably _him._ As he takes the car over a bump (murmuring a sorry when you bonk your head against the glass pane, just a little), you catch the whiff of someone’s perfume and feel the pit in your chest grow warmer, something in your stomach starting to turn sour. 

It’s then you make the realization, frustrating and horrible as it may be.

You’re jealous.

You, who swore at the man for even thinking about a date with you, and who has been trying to avoid this kind of thing the whole time you’ve been here…

There’s some sort of feelings, trapped beneath the surface, that the liquor in your body is drawing out, just to torture you. You groan quietly, bringing up a hand to pinch at the bridge of your nose, longing for the haziness of the booze clouding your brain to just _stop,_ if for a moment, to keep the angry tears that are welling up at bay.

“Hey hey--you feelin’ sick, hon? That last shot probably overdid ya. Uh...try to hold it in ‘til we get to the house.” His gruff voice is soft, surprising you with how caring he is, even if he thinks you’re close to upchucking in his nice car. Really, that may not be far from the truth; you feel sick, but not exactly because of the drinks. It’s frustrating, to think of how many lab partners you’ve had and the feelings you’ve held off on, the little interactions that made your heart just too full for a stranger, and now _this…_

You couldn’t ignore it.

You hear a sniffle, then a whimper that follows it, and you realize a little late that it’s _you,_ frustrated tears rolling down your cheeks and no doubt ruining the makeup you had cared for a little more than you’d led yourself to believe. Bringing a hand to your face, you cover your eyes with one hand, trying to hide your tears despite the fact that you already feel the man’s eyes on you, concern pinching his brow as he looks at you.

“Is it that bad? I’m sure we’ve got somethin’ that can help a bad gut somewhere in the house. Lemme park--I’ll help you to bed.” Stan’s voice is soothing to you, and you grit your teeth even more for it, shaking your head. 

_It’s not that,_ you admit, alarm bells going off in your mind as you give him a bit of truth. He puts the DeVille into park, murmuring a “Hang on,” as his door opens, his weight lifting from the car before the door closes again and you hear footsteps on gravel outside your window, knowing he’s on your side to help you from the car. 

“If it’s not that, what’s wrong, honey? This came out of nowhere…” Stan pulls open the door as he asks you, and you’re surprised at the wet sound that leaves your throat, somewhere caught between a sniff and a sob. It’s killing you, the frustration about your own feelings, remembering the way those girls hung off him and how _happy_ he looked with them on his arms. The lipstick on his skin, the perfume embedded into the fabric of his blazer. It’s all too much at once, and as his warm hand lands at your arm to pull your hand from your eyes, you look up at him with wet, flushed cheeks, a whimper in your voice as you ask him the question that’s bothered you every time you catch his eyes lingering, every chance his cheeks go a little pink at your attention.

_D-Do you think I’m pretty?_

“Wha--..?” Stan’s brow furrows, pink tinting his cheeks (from the cold, you’re more than certain) as he gently helps you stand from the car. You look up at him, haziness settling its way further into your mind as you wobble on your feet, another whimper threatening to escape you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, clearing his throat. 

“Of course I do,” He says, voice full of so much more softness than you could have expected, and it takes you by surprise, “You’re one of the prettiest girls I’ve seen. Now, c’mon…” Stan’s arm slides down your back, gentle to hold you in that ticklish junction against your ribs as he guides you up the porch, finding the door to be unlocked already. You’re idly aware of the sounds of Fidds and Ford somewhere downstairs, clunky footsteps moving around somewhere beneath you, but you don’t care. You sniffle in confusion, Stan’s words so genuine as he kicks the door closed behind him. 

“Sorry, honey, I don’t think we’ll make it upstairs unless I carry you, an’ my back isn’t ready for it. Plus, ah...I-I dunno, the couch is soft enough.” He excuses, cheeks still pink as he leads you down into the cushions. The petname burns into your chest, and you look up at him as you lean back into the couch. _You really think so?_

Stan’s brow furrows at you, “Of course the couch is soft enough--you would know, you sit here--”

 _No_ , you shake your head, groaning quietly as the haziness in your mind swims behind your eyes again, wiping at your wet cheeks with the heels of your palm. You glance down to see bits of your mascara now on your hands, another sniffle leaving you, feeling so ridiculously _stupid._

“O-Oh,” He realizes what you mean, clearing his throat as he meets, then avoids your eye, reaching for the blanket laying on the back of the couch to drape it over you, “Yeah, I think you’re pretty. Prettier than any of the girls in Gravity Falls, that’s for sure, but...y’know. In general, too.” Stan nods, glancing to meet your eye and biting the inside of his lip as he does. 

_...Oh_ , you hum, something hopeful beginning to seep into the edges of the jealousy looping in your chest. You move almost to sit forward and reach for him, but he kneels in front of you in the same movement, looking down to the ground as he does. Your stomach lurches anxiously, your knees knocking together once as you clench your thighs together, unsure of his plan, and he looks at you with a raised brow as he starts to loosen the straps of your heels instead. You could almost laugh--the man only _just_ admitted he thought you pretty, and you think he’d really go to _those_ lengths to prove it? Right now? Absolutely not.

Stan places one of your shoes on the coffee table, the other coming along beside its friend as he murmurs to himself. “Alright now, you get yourself comfy, okay? I’m gonna go grab you some water--you’ll want it, I promise.” He huffs a little chuckle, one hand landing at your knee as he grunts quietly to hoist himself up. His palm is so hot against your leg, the little bud of warmth in your gut growing steadily harder to ignore as you push your thighs tighter together. Warmth blooms in your cheeks as you watch him move toward the kitchen, clearing your throat and shifting the blanket that had landed at your shoulders to wrap around your middle instead, curling your legs onto the couch while you listen to him moving around the kitchen. 

Under the blanket, you shimmy your way to lay your head against the arm of the couch, mumbling something and instead lying against your arm. The haze of drunken-sleepiness starts to hover deeper into your mind, and you fight against it as your eyes start to drift once, then again, and when you open your eyes a third time Stan is there, patting lightly at the side of your thigh as he leans over you, glass of water in hand. 

“Here,” he encourages in a whisper, knowing he’s disturbed you and feeling badly about it. As you sit up, you take the glass and sip at it, blinking blearily while you watch him move. The skin near his jaw and neck are red, and you notice the lipstick prints in those same spots are gone. Had he really taken the time to wipe them away, after catching you looking at them? It would almost be considerate, you think, if the notion wasn’t overlooked by how much he’s helped you in the minutes since you’ve gotten home. 

_You’re too sweet,_ you sniffle, and you can see the wash of dread over his face when he thinks you’ll start to cry in earnest again. “Hey, hey...you’re pretty sweet too, honey. Okay? Now, don’t fret too hard about it…” When he leans in to take the cup from your hand and place it on the coffee table, you can see bits of stubble starting to regrow from where he’d shaved the morning before. Something in your drink-addled mind wonders how he might taste, how the stubble would feel against— 

No. **No.** Absolutely not. Even drunk, you could keep it together. Sure, you’d admit at this point you might have a crush. Maybe. But….no more than _just_ a crush. That’s all you had time for, anyway.

“You just lay back and rest up for the night, alright? I won’t be too far away, so you just yell and I’ll come running.” He smiles down at you as you curl up again, head resting against your arm once more, no doubt wrinkling his blazer where it’s folded against your body. “That’s it--sleep all this off. We can talk more in the mornin’.” Stan’s hand leaves the glass on the tabletop, reaching across you to tug the quilt further up your form before placing his warm hand against your shoulder and giving it a rub. You hum softly in acknowledgment of his warmth, drooping eyelids barely letting you see as he moves from your side. You watch him as he idly fidgets with the buttons of his shirt, moving toward the stairs as he does. Eyes trailing down the newly-exposed spanse of skin, you see more of that tell-tale chest hair, light curls trailing down his chest, down his belly, and down further--though, by that point, he’s already moved up the stairs toward his bedroom.

You huff quietly, groaning to yourself in frustration as you settle further into the warm blanket. It isn’t fair to him to _be_ like this, and you know it, but...you’re grateful for his help, even if it’s causing you to realize feelings that you would rather not admit to yourself, let alone to him.

As your eyes start to drift closed again, you hear footsteps down the stairs once more, catching a glimpse of the man in pj pants and his familiar white tank top. You almost make to say something, but drowsiness catches the voice in your throat before it can come to fruition. He mutters something to himself, reaching beside his well-worn chair to grab at a trashcan there. Thinking you asleep, he sets the thing on the floor beside the couch--where you could grab it easily should the need arise. Stan takes an extra moment as he stands close to you, looking over your form as you breathe lightly, eyes nearly-closed and so near to sleep…

“I know you won’t remember this in the morning, honey,” He starts quietly, moving to his chair as he takes and unfolds the blanket from the back of it, settling in the cushions as he throws the blanket over his lap, sleepily musing, “But I hope you remember how pretty I think you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh we gettin a lil spicy and then a lil soft here boys, i hope you're enjoying reading as much as i enjoy writing!


	8. Expeditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thrill goes through you at the thought that maybe he’s feeling flustered too, and another thought immediately follows to remind you that you don’t have time for those sort of feelings, and you do your best to ignore both as you avoid the squeaky floorboards up the stairs to your room. You shut the door behind you when you cross the threshold, sighing as you lean back against the wood and decide maybe...Maybe.
> 
> Maybe, if your heart keeps tugging….you should follow it

You’re groaning by the time you sit up, mouth tasting of bitterness and tongue feeling fuzzy. _What--where..?_ You stammer blearily, the heel of your palm landing at your temple at the pound your own voice brings to your head. Okay...you remember the bar...you remember drinking _much_ too much...you remember the shot you’d taken as the night was ending, Stan’s grin pointed your direction-- _Stan._

You remembered his voice, gentle as you dozed on and off on the couch. Though your mind is hazy on his words, you know it was something...nice, in the delicate drift between just-too-drunk and sleep. 

There’s a snore from behind you, and you crank your neck to see (much to your own head’s dismay, as it punishes you immediately with another throb). Stan lays still in his chair, mouth slightly opened, snoring softly in the reclined seat with a quilt laid haphazardly over him. You smile a little at the image, before realizing.

...He stayed _all_ night?

You sit up further and stretch a little, all too grateful to stretch out the stiffness in your neck as you move, but you groan quietly at the throb in your temples. You don’t remember when your age had started to catch up to you, but...well, it seems like now it’s at least giving you a run for your money. 

_Not even that old yet…_ you murmur to yourself, sitting up slightly to take a drink from the glass left on the coffee table--you assume, again, that it’s been left there by Stanley. That, the trash can beside you, your heels laid nicely a little further on the table, the tan blazer somehow holding on where it rests on your shoulders...

Perhaps “kind” is something you can add to that list of his. 

You feel your stomach lurch, unease filling your chest as you instinctively reach for the trashcan, just in case. Ugh, you really… _really shouldn’t’ve done the shots of tequila…._

“And bourbon,” A rumble from nearby reminds, causing you to jump at the sound. You swallow again, willing the wave of nausea to pass as you look to Stan accusingly. He only smiles, offering a point in your direction as his lazy grin spreads his cheeks, “The last shot was bourbon. Didn’t think you’d like it, but…” Stanley shrugs, amusement twinkling in his eye as you clutch the wastebasket to your chest. 

_Thank you for the reminder,_ you groan, and the little chuckle that leaves him makes something in your belly budge again. You drum your fingertips against the metal of the wastebasket, unable to stop the little smile that fights its way to your lips. You take slow breaths and the ill feeling subsides, and you shift against the couch cushions to put the wastebasket back down, moving slowly to reach for your shoes where they lay on the table. 

“Take it easy today, toots--you didn’t sleep too long, all things considered, and--” He grunts softly as he pushes himself from his seat, , motioning in your direction as he sits forward, “You...weren’t feelin’ too good last night.” Stan offers you a soft sort of smile, rubbing lightly at the back of his neck. A flush of pink spatters his cheeks, and your stomach lurches again. Did you say something stupid? Were you an asshole?

Or worse….did you flirt with him?

Your fingers slide beneath the blanket and you breathe a little relief at the realization you’re still wearing your skirt, thankfully.

_I hope I wasn’t too much of a hassle,_ you murmur bashfully as you shift from under the covers, putting the trashcan aside as your feet hit the rug against the hardwood floor. Your fingers come up to toy at the lapel of the blazer you’re wearing, rubbing the fabric between your forefinger and thumb as you glance over to him. Stan just watches you from where he lays back in the recliner, gaze warm, “Nah, never, toots. You’re always a treat.” There’s no sarcasm in his tone, nothing that leads you to think his words to be any sort of taunt. 

Heat comes to your cheeks easily, having expected some genuine teasing after all, but...well, it’s nicer this way, you think. He’s funny, sure, but when he’s sweet, he can be very sweet.

_Well, thank you for taking care of me,_ you smile lightly, hoping the genuine sentiment doesn’t peek out in your words. You move to stand, giving a soft noise of unhappiness as your head threatens to throb with the sleepy headache it’s started to take on. 

“No problem. You took care o’me the other day, with the fuckin’...bat, thing,” He waves off dismissively, the words not coming to him easily (probably from his own sleepiness, you think), “So I might as well return the favor. Go get some rest, alright? I’ll try and make sure Sixer and Fidds don’t bug ya too much--though, I’m sure they’re somewhere in a state like you are.” He winks, scratching lightly at the morning stubble at his jaw as he uncovers his abdomen, letting the quilted blanket collect against itself at his lap. Stan gives a yawn and stretches his arms above his head with a content sound, reaching both hands up and behind his head and resting the crown of his head in his palms.

You are pointedly not looking at the way his arms bulge just slightly, once-firmed muscle still strong in the way that you’re sure he’d been trained somehow in his younger age. You are _also_ maintaining full eye contact in the hopes that you can fully ignore the bit of belly pudge poking from the bottom of his thin tank top, tufts of dark hair trailing to disappear somewhere beneath the waistband of his pajama pants. You blink and catch yourself staring despite reminding yourself not to, rubbing at your eyes in the hopes it would make him think maybe you were seeing spots instead of seeing the freckles lining his upper arms, drifting down the soft curve of his bicep and--

_A-And, uh, thank you for the blazer,_ you quickly say (though you think your words may be muffled by the sound of your heart thudding in your ears), pulling the satin-lined fabric from your shoulders and moving to fold it in half once before taking the step toward his recliner and laying the thing across the vague shape of his legs against the blanket. _Sorry if I wrinkled it, but...well, you could have taken it when I was falling asleep,_ you point out with a little smile, tugging at the hem of your skirt to keep the fabric a little lower on your thighs as your other hand reaches to take your shoes by the heels, holding them together as you make a move toward the stairs. You take the first step, then second, before you glance back at Stan with a little smile, _Holler at me for lunch, okay?_

You point the shoes in hand in his direction, catching his gaze as it drifts up your legs. Stan meets your eye and offers you a bashful sort of smile, clearing his throat as he glances away and nods, “You got it, hon. I’ll be sure t’come bother ya.” He’s smiling, even though he isn’t looking at you, and you swear that the tips of his ears aren’t usually that pink… 

A thrill goes through you at the thought that maybe he’s feeling flustered too, and another thought immediately follows to remind you that you don’t have time for those sort of feelings, and you do your best to ignore both as you avoid the squeaky floorboards up the stairs to your room. You shut the door behind you when you cross the threshold, sighing as you lean back against the wood and decide maybe...Maybe.

Maybe, if your heart keeps tugging….you should follow it.

…

You push off the door with a huff, rubbing lightly at your cheek as you move closer to your vanity. Once-nicely-mascaraed eyes widen at the sight of yourself with smudged lines layered atop the bags under your eyes. Stan must have been truthful, then; not only did you not sleep well, but you must have….well, at least cried at some point. Maybe you’d gotten sick once you got home. Shuddering at the thought, you’re at least appreciative that the alcohol stole that memory from you, despite being sure you put the poor man through hell to take care of you.

After wiping the leftover makeup away, and freshly changed from your going-out clothes into something comfier (and more likely to keep you warm in your drafty attic), you smooth some hair away from your face as you hunch over your little workspace in front of the triangular window. 

You have some catching up to do in your journal, working to trace over the pencil writings in the eyebat pages of the book. Careful not to smudge the ink across the pages, you blow lightly at the letters so the blue loops set nicely over their graphite counterparts. Yawning in between another cool exhale at your handwriting, you glance to where the page has turned to the next, reminding you of the contents of the next spread. 

Nibbling lightly at your bottom lip, you turn the page once you’re certain the pen ink has dried, eyeing the heading of ‘ _Stanley Pines’_ in your own loopy scrawl. You smile down at the picture of the man in question, huffing a little laugh as you shake your head at the memory. _Goofball…_

Still...you feel like you know so little about the man, though you’ve lived with him for over a month now. 

Though, you can still think of at least a _few_ things you know...So, you reach for your pencil, hunch a little more over your desk, and begin to write.

\--

Unbeknownst to you, you’re snoring.

Snoring very softly, the sound gentle alongside the low rumble of rain outside of your window, warm breath blowing lightly at the pages that you’d laid your cheek on for ‘only a second’, effectively splaying the pages.

Two knocks sounded at your door, then two more, with an accompanying call of your name as the thing finally creaked open and soft footfalls came closer. You wouldn’t know how real the sounds were, not with their reflections in your dream.

“Heh,” the gruff voice sounds soft, his footfalls stopping next to you. The murmurs that come next are lost to you, though written on the page in your own hand.

“ _Eyes: Amber. Dimpled left cheek, but smile hangs more crooked to his right side._ ...Does it, now? I don’t think I ever noticed… _Smells of the surrounding woods of Gravity Falls, if it’s possible. More handsome than he knows what to do with._ ”

Stan’s chewing into his bottom lip as he stands beside you, eyes scanning the page as a hand comes up to scratch at his stubble. “...You really think so, huh?” He murmurs, feeling foolish at the pink of his cheeks. Still, he knows better than to snoop...too much. 

“Hey, honey. Food’s here--Sixer got us all pizza.” His warm hands land at your shoulders and you give a shudder as you’re shaken from sleep. 

_Hmm?_ You grumble, rubbing at your eyes as you shift to lean into the warmth that’s been placed, heavy and humble at your shoulder. “I said,” he repeats, and you jerk more awake at the realization of whose hand and voice it is at your side, and he startles too. “H-Hey! It’s just me, babe, it’s okay,” He chuckles, giving you a pat as he cocks his head down at you, “Ford got us some pizza. It’ll be cold if you don’t get up soon.” He turns, his thumb brushing tenderly at the fabric of your shoulder before releasing you altogether, taking a step toward the exit, “I’ll see you downstairs.”

You smile lightly, offering an awkward chuckle and a, _Thank you, Stan. Be right down,_ before you realize what your makeshift pillow had been. You swear under your breath, wiping a little spot of drool from the edge of a page as the dreaded thought flits through your mind.

_How long was he standing there? And how much did he read?_  
Receding steps back downstairs are the only reply to your question, and you’re left to your worried imagination as you snap the journal closed and leave it to lie on your workspace. Sighing, you rub at your face, smoothing down the feeling of pages imprinted into the skin at your cheek as when you glance into the mirror of your vanity as you pass it by. 

Two absolute winners of interactions with Stan in one day. Great.

Lord knows what he thinks of you, at this point. But, you remind yourself, the less he thinks of you at all? The better. 

“There she is,” Fiddleford grins as you come downstairs, warmth in his voice as you round the corner toward the kitchen, “How are you feelin’, huh? You two got home after Ford ‘n I.”

_I’m feeling alright, especially after an impromptu nap,_ you smile lightly, and Stanley snorts from his place at the countertop, selecting a piece of pizza. “I’m sure,” He teases, glancing in your direction with a quirk of a smile, “Y’were snoring and droolin’ all over the place.”  
You scoff in exasperation despite the smile spreading across your cheeks, moving closer to grab your own plate as you look to Fiddleford, ignoring Stan’s interjections.

_Really, feeling fine. How are you and Ford holding up?_ You ask, smiling coyly in his direction with a quirk of your brow as you cock your head.

The six-fingered brunet in question is resting with his head on the circular tabletop, a glass of water with a frothing tablet bubbling away in his hand. “I have a bone to pick with you,” Ford grumbles with his face to the wood. You realize he’s speaking to you when his free hand comes up to point in the direction of your voice, and your brows raise when you point to yourself, your brows flying up your forehead. Fiddleford and Stan both stifle snickers, and you pretend not to notice that you’ve bumped Stan with your hip in your efforts to get a slice of pepperoni before he does, further ignoring his look of amused indignance at the action.

“ _You_ , allowed me to do shots, plural, despite knowing that my _precise_ limit is 148 milliters of alcohol at _any_ time--”

_You insisted you had gotten better!_ Laughing, you shake your head, _You insisted on mixing liquors --with differing proofs, mind you-- and it’s not just me to blame! Fiddleford and your brother could’ve stopped you at any time._

“Well, if Stanley weren’t bombarded by every gal he could get his hands on in that bar,” Fidds chuckles, and the memory of that _has_ stuck, apparently, “Didja get it all out of your system, Stanley? I was wonderin’ if you’d end up home with us at all.”

You feel discomfort at Fiddleford’s teasing, even though it isn’t directed to you in the slightest. Why did it bother you so much? You had gone out with the full intent to do some flirting yourself, anyway, so why was it so… _frustrating_ when Stan did it, too?

“Ah, yeah, well…” The twin at your side shrugs, looking down at the pizza on the counter instead of at Fiddleford, “They’re all nice girls, you know. I just...wanted to come home.” Stan glances in your direction, meeting your gaze with something thin-lipped and unreadable in his face, but it makes your stomach flip at the same. You clear your throat and murmur an _Excuse me,_ before sliding away from him and toward the kitchen table, reminding Ford of the glass’ existence by tapping his arm as you pass.

“Well, at any rate,” Ford grumbles, sitting up to look at you sleepy-eyed as he takes a sip of the drink in his hand, wrinkling his nose immediately at the taste (much like he does with shots, you recall). “In the next few hours, we’ll all need to be packed and ready for an expedition.”

“An expedition?” Stanley repeats the words from his place behind Ford, a frown on his face as he munches on a slice of the supreme.

“Mmhm! Stanford found somethin’ against the deck last night on our way in--don’t even know how he saw the thing, with how cross-eyed he was from the booze--”

“Yes, yes, go _on._ ” Ford grumbles to Fiddleford, not one to enjoy the memory of his woozy trek into the house.

“Anyway, it’s some tracks! We couldn’t follow them far, obviously, but they veer off into th’woods somewhere. We was hopin’ the lot of us could go find where they lead!” Fiddleford finishes, smiling from his place leant-up against the fridge. 

_And, what thing makes the tracks?_ You quirk a brow, hopeful for this new bout of research. The fauna here never cease to amaze.

“Precisely.” Ford nods, taking another deep swig of the bubbled drink in his hand. He wrinkles his nose at it again, smacking his lips as he swears under his breath. “I had in mind an overnight trip. It seems to be active at night, hence the prints we found after we’d been out all day. We can all pack a tent and go out for a night or two.”

_Tents?_ You question. That hadn’t been on your packing list. _I don’t have a tent, Ford._

“Well, neither do I,” Fiddleford admits, jabbing a thumb in Ford’s direction, “He’s offered to bunk with me. Guess you should be more detailed in your research-gear-to-bring, Stanford.” He teases, toe lightly kicking at the chair the man is hunched into. Ford waves him off with a grumble, shaking his head. 

“You can use mine,” Stan says, on his second slice now. Your brows quirk up at the implication, starting to open your mouth as if to argue, but he shakes his head, “ _You_ can use mine. _I’ll_ bunk with these idiots. I’ve lived with ‘em longer than you have, anyway.” He looks at you with a shrug, but there’s still some...unreadable something, tucked in his gaze. Somewhere you can’t quite place, but it makes you antsy all the same.

“Great, now that that’s settled,” Ford finishes the rest of the liquid in his glass, one hand coming up beneath his glasses and knocking them slightly askew on his face as he rubs at his eyes, “We’ll need to pack and head out for this evening, then. I’m not sure on the weather--we may have to check the cable,” He thinks aloud, glancing toward the darkened tv screen as he readjusts his glasses back to their rightful place, “But let’s go tonight.”

It’s short notice, but...well, the Pines (and McGucket) boys tend to keep you on your toes, it seems. 

You give a nod, patting Ford’s shoulder as you stand and move to put your plate into the sink, sated from your lunch. Glancing out of the corner of your eye, you see Stan at your side, poking idly at a piece of mushroom on a slice of pizza, still in the box. 

_Thank you, for the tent...thing. It’ll help more than you think,_ you smile, catching his attention all at once as he gives you another little shrug and leans back on the countertop, “No worries, babe--But, if you see my earplugs around somewhere, would you tell me? These two snore like no other.”

“You’re one to talk!” Fiddleford laughs, and you chuckle too, catching the warm way Stan looks at you at the sound. He flashes you a wink and motions toward the front room with his head, “Make sure you get all the shit you need...maybe an extra umbrella, too.” He teases lightly. You respond with a firm nod, _Can do!,_ and make your way back up toward your room to gather your wares, excitement bubbling in your belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Here's a sneaky chapter to finish the year out on!
> 
> I'm trying to get back into a normal schedule, but it may be a little touch and go here for a bit. As of this month, I have graduated college(!) AND landed a full time job in a field that I love(!!!), so thank you in advance for your patience. c:
> 
> as always, please let me know what you're enjoying! and you're always welcome to come visit me on piningfor-pinestwins.tumblr.com to yell in my inbox or give me reqs!
> 
> love u!


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